


The Ishvalan Accords

by missyskywalker



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ishbalan | Ishvalan, F/M, Gen, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishvalan AU, Ishvalan!Edward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-05-31 13:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 122,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6471301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missyskywalker/pseuds/missyskywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ishvalan AU It’s a year after the Promised Day, and Fuhrer Grumman, with General Mustang and his crew’s assistance, wants to restore Ishval to its previous glory. When negotiations between Amestris and Ishval convene, why does a certain golden-eyed former alchemist seem so interested? Just what has he been hiding for so many years?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: Roy Mustang I

Chapter 1: Roy Mustang I

 

 

 

Roy Mustang was having a bad day.

First of all, it was raining. So while the rest of the team pursued rumors of a dissident just outside of Central, Captain Riza Hawkeye had somehow convinced him that he would be more useful completing paperwork than out in the field.

This left him with an empty office, a large stack of paperwork, and no distractions. When some new recruit stumbled into Mustang’s office thinking that he was on the East side of the building (rather than the West), Mustang chatted with him for at least twenty minutes before even the private needed to leave for some orientation training.

Which left Roy Mustang alone again, staring down a seemingly growing stack of assessments, plans, and pleas for money, which had been deposited onto his desk from towns all across Amestris. He couldn’t imagine Fuhrer King Bradley ever spending this much time catering to the whim of his public, and when Mustang had vowed to become Fuhrer all those years ago in Ishval, he had no idea that it involved so much reading and signing. Whenever his subordinates ran off on assignments, even just ones across the building, he eyed them jealously, as he remained stuck behind a mountain of paperwork.

So Roy Mustang was having a bad day. But all of that didn’t even touch on why his stomach had been churning for hours. The Ishvalan Accords were scheduled for next week in Kedesh, an Ishvalan city that was slowly being rebuilt.

When Fuhrer Grumman took office, one of the first things he did was reverse the order forbidding any reconstruction of Ishval, so since then, small towns had sprouted up across the previously devastated landscape. However, the complications Ishval faced were monumental.

The Ishvalan Accords were scheduled peace talks, which sought a comprehensive treaty between Amestris and Ishval to dictate future relations between the two countries. Essentially, the Ishvalan Accords weren’t about celebrating their new partnership or the progress achieved so far, but they were about building peace in the future. The event was sure to be a historic occasion that Mustang wouldn’t miss for the world, and yet…. he would be forced to stare across the table to Ishvalans, whose lives he’d helped destroy. It was important, but it would not be comfortable.

Roy sighed and closed the proposal for faster train service between Amestris and Ishval. Almost all Ishvalan affairs passed his desk, and given that Ishval was by far the busiest region of Amestris currently, it made for a lot of paperwork.

After the homunculi were defeated, most Amestrians shrugged, bought the bogus stories the new Fuhrer Grumman fed, and went back to normal lives. Ishvalans did not have the same luxury.

Roy rubbed his eyes, struggling to remember the most basic details of the proposal he’d just finished. But before he could glance it over again, the phone rang.

As a Brigadier General, he couldn’t say he answered his own phone much these days, but he relished the thought of a distraction.

“Brigadier General Mustang. Who is this?”

“Col- General Mustang!” a high-pitched voice chimed through the receiver. “This is Winry. Is Riza there?”

“Winry?” A flood of questions rushed through his brain. “Is something wrong? Is Fullmetal-“

Winry’s bubbly laughter soothed his fears immediately.

“No, no, everyone is fine,” she said, a smile audible in her voice. “Is Riza there?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mustang said. “Everyone’s out of the office today. Can I help you?”

Roy’s interactions with Fullmetal’s genius automail mechanic had been limited at best, and he was quite certain that the only thing that tied them together was acquaintance with Edward Elric. That Winry would be calling, asking for ‘Riza,’ meant that there was now two somethings they had in common, but he had no idea Hawkeye and Winry were now so close.

“Would you mind passing on a message?” she asked, and Mustang made an affirmative grunt as he scrambled to find an empty piece of paper.

“Ed, Al, and I were planning on coming to Ishval for the Accords in a week, but there’s been a complication with one of my automail patients. A horrible infection- I told him to clean the ports carefully- does anyone ever listen to me? I swear it’s like I am talking to a wall. How painful does the infection have to be before someone starts listening to me around here-”

Mustang pointedly coughed, and he could imagine her bashful smile.

“Anyway, I’ll be held up for a few days, and Al’s gonna take the trip with me, so we’ll probably be down a few days later than expected. But Ed’ll be going ahead as scheduled.”

“You’re coming to the Ishvalan Accords?” Mustang asked.

“Hm? Yeah, we wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said. There was silence for a moment, when he realized that he didn’t have anything else to say to Fullmetal’s automail mechanic.

But Winry pressed on like they were… friends?

“How’s everything in Central been? Congratulations on your promotion, though that’s a few months old now, isn’t it?”

After most of the upper ranks of the military were ousted during the Promised Day, there were many vacancies, and Mustang didn’t need to be asked twice to fill one of them.

Mustang eased into conversation with Winry and before he knew it, Hawkeye and Havoc had returned. He and Winry exchanged goodbyes, but when he hung up the phone, he couldn’t stop beaming, regardless of how badly his day had been going.

“What is it, sir?” Hawkeye asked, as she and Havoc settled back into their desks. Neither were disheveled; it must have been another dead-end.

“Nothing,” Mustang said. “I just can’t believe Fullmetal got himself such a nice girl. Who would have thought that he would manage to swing that?”

“Winry?” Hawkeye asked, and Mustang nodded, before passing along the message.

“I didn’t know you kept in contact with her,” Mustang said, pushing aside all of the paperwork and leaning forward.

“Winry is sweet, and you know how Edward is with keeping in touch. It’s nice to hear how the Elric boys are doing,” she said casually, but Mustang knew he had maybe two more minutes before she cocked her gun at his head and made him continue his paperwork under duress. But he couldn’t stop pressing his luck.

“And how are they doing?” he asked, regardless of his long conversation with Winry, during which she filled him in on all the important details: Al was stronger than before and improving quickly. Edward was adjusting to quiet life back in Resembool nicely, and the two had taken up sparring with each other again.

Mustang’s time procrastinating had finally run out. 

Hawkeye marched over to his desk and before she could start berating him, out of the corner of his eye he caught Havoc sneaking out of the office. He was limping slightly: Marcoh’s stone could only heal so much. He had to use a cane permanently, but he had probably forgotten it somewhere. He was nothing if not stubborn. He was about as stubborn as Mustang himself, who hated his glasses which enhanced the Stone’s healing of his blindness. He had the tendency to “forget” them at home, but Hawkeye never said anything. He knew that she knew that Mustang hated seeing his reflection with glasses in the mirror. It made him look too much like Maes Hughes.

Hawkeye huffed and held her gun at his forehead.

“DO YOUR PAPERWORK!”

Mustang sighed and began reading about the railroad junction in East City again. Hawkeye settled back down at her desk and the minutes dragged by.

After a respectable amount of time passed and Mustang had finished the proposal again, this time actually remembering most of it, he gathered up the nerve to interrupt Hawkeye’s deep concentration in the files of some of Central’s newest recruits.

“I didn’t know you invited the Elrics to the Ishvalan Accords,” he said, trying for conversational, like the thought had just occurred to him.

Hawkeye looked up from the file.

“Why don’t you want them there?” she asked without a hint of emotion.

She was the only person his deceptions never worked on. She could always see through any mask he wore. It was why they worked so well together.

“It’s not that I don’t want them there-“

“Sir.”

“I just don’t know why they’d want to be there,” he said. That Ishval’s ruins were a continuing source of shame to Mustang didn’t need to be said. He knew that Hawkeye held as much grief and regret as he did.

Hawkeye sighed and put the file down.

“They’re the next generation, General. They’re the ones who will have to see all of our plans through, and few have done more for Amestris than those two boys. They’ll be an asset, regardless. I know Major Miles likes them, and Scar has history with them, but the Ishvalans are a hell of a lot more likely to trust people who didn’t wage war on their land, sir.”

A compassionate answer wrapped around a logical one buried in a militaristic one. Hawkeye was the only one who could out-maneuver him with ease.

“Get back to work, Sir. If you don’t finish that before next week, it’ll be on your desk when we come back from Ishval.”

Mustang held in a groan. Barely.

The week preceding the Ishvalan Accords passed swiftly, marked by the decreasing piles of paper on his desk. Not that anyone could prove it, but Hawkeye could forge his signature remarkably well, and she had assisted him late into the night on multiple occasions leading up to the Ishvalan trip.

When he wasn’t burdened by paperwork, preparations for the upcoming Ishvalan Accords kept Mustang busy. The Fuhrer himself was going to spend the first few days there. He wouldn’t spend much time in the drudgery of the actual negotiations; rather, his visit was more for public perception and opinion than as a decisive voice in the Ishvalan reconstruction. That was more of Mustang’s responsibility.

However, Mustang was constantly fighting with the new Fuhrer, who insisted he didn’t need a security detail.  After all, as Fuhrer Grumman argued, he’d been stationed to the Aurego border during the Ishvalan War and should have no enemies in Ishval.  

When Mustang had exhausted every other avenue of persuasion, he used his secret weapon to convince him of the gravity of the situation: Riza Hawkeye. She had only recently learned that she was his granddaughter, and when Grumman was being stubborn, only she could get through to him.

It was finally compromised that he would consent to half a unit dedicated solely to his security. This, of course, didn’t count Mustang or Hawkeye, who were no slouches at defense themselves.  

It was an unfortunate side effect of these sorts of things that they very quickly grew from a quiet negotiation for the future of the country to a gaudy display of Amestrian power, but Mustang’s hands were tied.

Jean Havoc, Riza Hawkeye, and Heymans Breda would be accompanying Mustang to Isvhal. Vato Falman had long since abandoned Mustang’s circle, remaining dedicated to his post at Briggs. Mustang enjoyed asking about inside information about the “Ice Queen” because Falman, although loyal to Mustang, was far more scared of Olivier Armstrong and refused to say anything. Which left Kain Fuery as the only one of Mustang’s men in Central. Fuery’d dedicated all of his time to modernizing the military’s radio system. Anyone who stepped into his tinkering space in the Central Command basement would get at least an hour’s explanation about how it was going to change the way the entire country operated.

Team Mustang had been through changes over the past year, but he was glad to have Havoc, Hawkeye, and Breda on his side during the coming weeks. Havoc and Breda hadn’t served in Ishval, which he hoped would balance out the Ishvalan reception to their military party.

At last the big day arrived. A private train would take them from Central to Ishval, even though there were less than forty in their party, which would leave at least half of the train unoccupied. A benefit of travelling with the Fuhrer, Mustang supposed. Mustang and his men met early to sweep the train for any dangers, and before the sun rose completely, Fuhrer Grumman, Hawkeye, and his security detail arrived too.  

“Relax, Mustang,” Grumman shouted out as a greeting. “If anyone is trying to kill me, they wouldn’t do it while the Flame Alchemist is here.”

Captain Hawkeye sent a thankful look to Mustang regardless, and the train’s crew began carrying the luggage aboard.

“Fuhrer!” a shout echoed from the neighboring road. Grumman twirled his moustache before turning around.

Mustang, who had been directing the security force, spun around as well, and was disappointed to see Ariyn Fitzgerald carrying a large duffel bag running past the station’s gate.

“You didn’t forget you invited me, Fuhrer Grumman sir, did you?” she asked, putting her bag among the luggage.  Her tone was light but her smile was cold, and when she removed her oversized sunglasses, she revealed an empty gaze. A few wrinkles pulled at the corners of her eyes, but her hair was mostly dark with only a few grays hidden beneath her bun.

“Of course not, Representative. I was hoping you would show up. I would have hated for the train to leave without you,” he said, before checking his watch. “You’re very nearly late.”

“Very nearly,” she said, and although she was smiling, Mustang held in a sneer before boarding the train and joining his team’s cabin. Hawkeye and Breda shot him concerned looks as soon as he entered.

“Why the long faces?” Havoc asked, fumbling with a cigarette between his index and middle finger.

“I thought you had quit smoking,” Mustang said, snatching the cigarette and throwing it out the window.

Havoc shrugged.

“Plans change,” he said nonplussed, before reaching into his pocket and grabbing another one. “So what gives? Who’s the she-devil?”

Breda and Mustang exchanged dark looks.

“What?” Havoc asked again.

“Keep your voice down,” Hawkeye whispered before closing the cabin door. As soon as it shut, Mustang stretched out on his chair and leaned all the way back.

“That’s Ariyn Fitzgerald,” Breda supplied when no one else said anything. “She’s the Head of the Parliamentary Representatives from the East.” Breda frowned.

“But it’s the Parliament,” Havoc said. “They’re powerless.”

And so they were. Amestris did have a Parliament, established at the same time as the country itself, but it was only a facade for the military state that hid behind it. There was a saying that passed through the lips of the military: even the janitor of Central Command had more power than the Parliament.

“They’re powerless for now,” Hawkeye said. “Representative Fitzgerald has been maneuvering for more power since Bradley died. Because she is the Head of the Eastern division, she thinks this falls under her jurisdiction.”

“Doesn’t it?” Havoc asked. “I mean she looks mean as hell, but isn’t she kind of right?”

Mustang sighed.

“She is. But the last thing we need is the Parliament sticking their noses into Ishval right now. I trust the Fuhrer to set things right in Ishval, and I know the Ishvalans will be looking for reparations. We don’t need Ariyn Fitzgerald worrying about the political ramifications in Central while we negotiate with the Ishvalans. I trust her about as far as I can throw her.”

They fell into a comfortable silence until Havoc brought out a deck of cards. The ride to Ishval was pleasant, and Mustang almost forgot how unpleasant the following days would be. Almost.

Not that they wouldn’t be vital. Ariyn Fitzgerald’s insistence on coming just confirmed how much Mustang needed to do this. This was why he had climbed up the military ladder. Why he didn’t just quit after committing nightmare-worthy atrocities. He had to make this right, if that was even possible anymore. Perhaps there was redemption for Ishval, but there was no redemption for him. There were some things you couldn’t come back from. And although that line was fuzzy, burning innocent children alive was certainly past it.

If the Ishvalan delegates spat in his face, he wouldn’t blame them. He sent a nervous smile to Hawkeye and she returned it, before throwing down a four of a kind.

Damn it. He hadn’t won a single game yet.

“Mustang? What’s Ishval like?” Havoc asked suddenly, and Breda nodded, though he never glanced up from his cards. Mustang was sure Breda was hiding a good hand, so he folded, but didn’t know how to answer Havoc’s question.

It was easy to forget that Havoc and Breda were still in the military academy when the Ishvalan War ended, and had never made the trip to Ishval before. The war in Ishval was the embodiment of everything that was wrong with the military, but there were military men who had only heard stories of the sandy hell.

“Hot,” Hawkeye said before folding as well. “Prepare to sweat through your uniform and never feel cold again. You’ll be digging sand out of your shoes for months, but I’ve never seen it in peacetime.” She tilted her head. “Who knows what it will be like now?”

Mustang hadn’t had the chance to go back yet, even though he’d been given a large role in the oversight of the region. The last time he’d seen Ishval, the war was over, and he, along with the invading Amestrian army, was returning home, trudging through the decimated countryside. Only rubble remained where once had been cities and civilization. He remembered his last look at Ishval before boarding the train home; he’d peered through the grimy window at the endless sandy expanse littered with ruins, knowing he was partially responsible. Hughes had been with him then.

“It’ll be rough. Kedesh, the city we’ll be based in, was destroyed during the war. It’s being rebuilt but slowly, so most of it is still in ruins. It won’t be like what you’re used to,” Mustang said as Havoc finally folded as well. Breda collected his winnings and revealed he’d had a horrible hand. Havoc groaned.

By the time they reached the station in Ishval, it was dark, Mustang had lost 30,000 cenz, and the next time they went out for drinks, the first two rounds were on Havoc.

A young member of the Fuhrer’s security detail slid open the cabin door as they were cleaning up the last of the cards. His boyish face and wide eyes betrayed an innocence Mustang was unfamiliar with. Even twelve year old Fullmetal hadn’t seemed so young, though he’d had a lifetime’s worth of pain by then.

He saluted.

“The Ishvalan delegates wish everyone to freshen up before our meeting tonight,” he reported each word bouncing as he said them. “We’ll be shown our accommodations right now, sir.”

Mustang nodded and let the boy run back to the front of the train. Maybe he seemed so young because Mustang himself was getting older.

The Amestrian party gathered off the train, and they were greeted by a single Ishvalan woman who gave the visitors a deep bow. In Mustang’s experience, it had always been difficult to tell the age of Ishvalans because of their white hair, but this woman had creases across her forehead and beside her eyes that betrayed her true age. Her red eyes surveyed the Amestrians, but did not contain the anger Mustang was expecting, even though she must have lived through the Ishvalan War.

Pleasantries were exchanged, and she led them from the train station and into the city itself. The sun had long since set, so it was hard to see much of the rebuilding progress. The road they were walking on was dirt, just a step above sand in Mustang’s opinion. Establishing (or re-establishing he supposed) roads would be crucial in the big cities. There was so much to do, so many details to account for. It was truly recreating a country from nothing.

The city sprawled across the terrain, just a few buildings close to the train station, gradually clustering together as the lights filtering from the windows of homes illuminated the road. The Ishvalan guide, who introduced herself as Abra, was in a deep discussion with the Fuhrer, so Mustang dawdled behind the security detail with his own unit. Neither he nor Hawkeye could stop scrutinizing every dark corner they passed for assailants. Mustang hoped it was just habit and not a shared bad feeling.

Finally, they arrived in the city proper, and it was clear that this was the epicenter of the reconstruction in the area.  

Although the buildings only stood about three stories high, they were bunched together. It didn’t look dissimilar from Ishvalan cities he’d once destroyed. Here the dirt road turned to cobblestone, though it was too dark to see how far it extended. The street they were on wasn’t as quiet as the path from the train station. Figures danced in and out of shadows, mostly ignoring the large Amestrian party. A few stopped and stared, but before anyone approached, the Amestrians were escorted into one of the tallest buildings in sight.

They were greeted by a dim lounge fit with a bar in the far corner.   

Abra barked something in Ishvalan at a young boy who was napping on the couch, and he jumped up with a start. His red eyes widened at the large group, and he gave an off-balanced bow. Given her tone, Abra probably chastised him, but the boy just laughed. He beckoned the group upstairs and into a hallway of matching doors. He, like Abra, bore a burgundy and gold striped sash across his clothing, which was loose and light. His steps were soft on the creaking floor, so different than the soldiers’ heavy stomping.

Mustang, Breda, and Havoc were pointed to the last room, which was adjacent with Hawkeye and Ariyn’s lodgings. After everyone had retreated into their rooms, the boy remained fixed in the doorway of the last room.

“Do you need anything?” Havoc asked him. The boy rocked from side to side, and it struck Mustang that he may have never seen an Amestrian before.

“What’s your name? Are you part of the military? Why are you really here? Abram from down the road says that the military will only mess everything up. Did you ever kill anyone? Your eyes are funny looking, do you see everything in dark colors?”

Havoc held his hand up to halt the barrage of questions and grinned.

“I’m Jean Havoc,” before throwing out his hand and the boy shook it with rigor. “I am part of the military and hopefully we’ll be able to help all of you out. Do you see everything in red?”

“No,” he said with a thoughtful frown.

Havoc scratched his head, “Er, what’s your name?”

“Gilad,” he said, before perking up. “Come down for dinner when you can. Madam Abra is making really yummy food for you, but I’m not allowed to eat any of it.” He pouted, before covering his lips. “Oh! Don’t tell her I said that. She’ll chase me out of here with a broom again!”

Havoc laughed, “Your secret is safe with me.” The boy ran off, his small feet quiet on the wooden floors.  

“Cute kid,” Havoc said before sprinting toward the bathroom. “I call first shower!”

An hour later, the Amestrians met in the hallway and descended to the ground level for dinner. Among them, only Ariyn Fitzgerald didn’t wear a military uniform, and in the sea of blue, she seemed much more human than she usually did. Mustang made a beeline towards the Fuhrer, but she followed behind him.   

“Are your accommodations up to your satisfaction, Fuhrer?” Mustang asked, sharing a significant look with Grumman.

“Pleasant enough. I can’t complain,” he said. “I’m looking forward to dinner, but would you mind sitting next to an old fart like me? I hate to take you away from your subordinates.”

Mustang smiled, “Not at all, it would be my honor.”

With that settled, Fuhrer Grumman turned to Ariyn Fitzgerald, and engaged her in a discussion about the culinary history of Drachma.

People tended to forget how smart Grumman was, and that for all of Mustang’s tricks, he was still a novice compared to the current Fuhrer. In the preceding conversation he’d told Mustang in his code that he didn’t mind Ariyn’s presence but still to keep an eye on her.

The Fuhrer’s security detail had no interest in dinner according to its leader, a stocky Major with a rugged beard.  Major Wilson ignored the disappointed looks gracing his men’s faces, and ordered them to survey the landscape, guard the dining room, and sweep the Fuhrer’s room for explosives.

“He’s certainly thorough,” Mustang muttered to Hawkeye, as they hung back from the rest of the party.

“Better safe than sorry, sir,” she said. With the security forces gone, it was only Mustang, Hawkeye, Fuhrer Grumman, Representative Fitzgerald, Breda, and Havoc, as well as Major Wilson, who would be the Fuhrer’s personal bodyguard.

Mustang hadn’t even met the Ishvalans yet, and he was already exhausted. Playing political mind games with Ariyn Fitzgerald would almost be fun if not for the serious consequences for failure in these Accords. Although the Fuhrer was just as enthusiastic about Ishvalan reconstruction, he was also taking advantage of his time out of Central away from the public eye. His eccentricities were on full display for Ariyn Fitzgerald, who hid her disgust for the odd behavior with the thinnest of smiles. Mustang got the feeling she’d never been granted one-on-one time with Grumman before. That his peculiarities were half act and half reality, she probably wasn’t aware.

The dining room was well-lit, in the first display of electricity Mustang had noticed (he’d been thankful for the plumbing upstairs though). It had a homey feeling despite its sparse decorations. In his experience, Ishvalans weren’t too keen on worldly possessions, but the far wall was lined with newspaper clippings, photographs, and pages cut out of books. He couldn’t read it from the doorway but he could see that it was a mixture of Ishvalan and Amestrian script.

The Ishvalan ambassadors were sitting at the table when they arrived, but upon the Amestrians’ entrance, they rose and bowed. Mustang and his companions followed suit.

He recognized Major Miles immediately, his spiked hair differentiating him from the others. He was without his dark-tinted glasses, proudly revealing his red eyes. Although he was still formally in the military, he dressed as an Ishvalan, the traditional sash cutting across a light purple robe.

And after a moment, Mustang recognized one of the other men: Scar. It wasn’t a surprise he didn’t recognize him immediately. He bore a smile, and a softness Mustang hadn’t remembered, if that was even possible. His broad shoulders were hidden beneath his loose robe and he’d grown his hair out so that it could be tied in the back. His X-shaped scar still shone from across his eyes, but without his face distorted in a glare, he barely registered to Mustang as the same person.

Major Miles rushed forward for introductions.

“This is Grand Cleric Heridas,” he said, gesturing to Scar. _Grand Cleric Heridas_. Mustang vowed to not slip that up. He supposed that it made sense that Scar wouldn’t go as ‘Scar’ forever.

Then Miles pointed to the other Ishvalans gathered in the room.

“This is Elder Vikram and Elder Shan,” he said, pointing to the man and woman beside Scar. ( _Grand Cleric Heridas,_ he mentally corrected.) When Elder Vikram twisted toward them, he exposed a thin, dark scar stretching from his temple to underneath his sash. He nodded toward the Amestrians when he was introduced, but his shoulders were tense beneath his tunic.

Elder Shan was the eldest of the party by far. She hunched over as she stood, leaning heavily on a cane. She was short, shorter than Fullmetal by at least a head, and she had an eyepatch covering her right eye. Her face was lined with deep grooves, and as soon as she was introduced, she returned to her seat at the table, letting her cane rest against the back of her chair. After the introductions on both sides were complete, Elder Shan invited everyone to sit.

“If our companions don’t mind, I’d like to lead a short prayer,” she said, bringing her palms together, lowering her head, and closing her eyes.

“Please, go ahead,” the Fuhrer said, and the other Ishvalans mimicked her pose.

She murmured a few lines in Ishvalan before switching to Amestrian.

“Speedily fulfill the vision of your prophet. Nation shall not lift sword up against nation. Neither shall they learn war anymore. And let us say ‘amen.’”

The other Ishvalans echoed, “Amen.”

There was a moment of awkward silence as they lifted themselves out of prayer positions and Scar seemed to be staring at nothing, but it passed as Abra and the young boy brought out trays of food.

The international language of food united the table and soon the merry sounds of chewing and drinking filled the dining room. It was mostly an Ishvalan spread, spicy and colorful foods unfamiliar to all of the Amestrians, but as they’d been travelling all day, not even Ariyn complained.

At one point Scar ( _Grand Cleric Heridas,_ he corrected himself again) and Major Miles started discussing the increased budgetary proposal for Ishvalan schooling and Mustang saw Ariyn itching to join the fray, but before Mustang could say anything, Elder Shan shushed them.

“We have weeks to discuss that, boys. No need for such talk tonight. Don’t you have anything else you can talk about?” She smiled to negate the harshness of her words, but both quieted immediately.

“When you get to be my age, if I say something can wait until morning, you know it can wait. There’s never an assurance of tomorrow. After all, I might not make it ‘til then!” She chuckled to herself, and the Fuhrer joined in.

“Here here,” he said, lifting his glass in appreciation. “Kids are obsessed with getting things done quickly. To do most things right you have to do them slowly and carefully. Just the other day…”

He regaled the table to a tale of his secretary’s children, and Mustang began to relax a little. Even Havoc chimed in after a bit, before being quieted by Elder Shan.

“How old are you? You’re hardly out of your teens yourself.”

Havoc laughed.

“I wish my parents agreed with you, Elder. They keep bothering me to get married and have kids.”

“I keep trying to convince Grand Cleric Heridas here to get married,” she said, pointing to Scar. “He’s never had much interest in marriage, I’m afraid.”

“I’m dedicated to Ishvala,” he said quietly, massaging his temples. Mustang got the feeling that this was a long-running argument.

“Ishvala will understand if you devote some time to a lady friend,” she said, shoving Scar good-naturedly. It was strange to see Scar, a man older than Mustang, treated like a kid, but then again, Elder Shan was probably older than the two of them combined.

The night wrapped up with good feelings all around, and when everyone agreed to retreat to their rooms and begin the actual work tomorrow, Mustang remained in the dining room. Although it had been a long train ride, he wasn’t tired yet. This new Ishval was everything he’d worked for; these Accords had to go smoothly or it would all be for naught.

“Cenz for your thoughts?” a low voice asked from the doorway. Mustang turned around to Major Miles’ face schooled into a neutral expression.

“Nothing worth a cenz I’m afraid,” Mustang said, pushing any discomfort from his demeanor. Miles was a few years older than Mustang but had spent most of his military career at Briggs. “That could have gone worse.”

Miles nodded.

“I’m not looking forward to all of the press,” Miles said slowly. “The last thing we want are reporters and tourists crawling all over our construction sites.”

“I’m not sure about tourists, but reporters will definitely want to come after these talks conclude. We’re hoping to keep them off our backs at least for now. One of the Fuhrer’s security team will be photographing all of our work tomorrow. Most everything else can be done in press releases from Central after it’s all over.”

“I don’t like this fanfare,” Miles said, leaning against the far wall. “It encourages dangerous people to strike.”

Major Miles was both easy and difficult to talk to. He was blunt but it was a relief to know he said what he believed.  

“Perhaps, but hiding the government’s affairs doesn’t build trust. We’re trying to gain some of that back,” Mustang said. Miles stared at Mustang, his red eyes betraying nothing.

“Are you planning on being the next Fuhrer?”

Mustang coughed on nothing, but Miles just stared at him undeterred.

“You asking for General Armstrong?” Mustang finally asked.

Miles shook his head, “I’m asking because I think you have a very good chance of becoming Fuhrer one day.”

Mustang didn’t know rumors of his lofty ambitions had spread so far. Miles sat down beside him, now eye level with Mustang.  

“I want to make sure that when you become Fuhrer, you do not forget about these promises for Ishval.”

Mustang automatically launched into a political response of affirmation, but Miles halted him with his hand.

“No, I mean it,” Miles said, his burgundy eyes squinting at him. Mustang sighed and wished he had his collection of brandy with him. He told Miles as much.

“Major Miles,” Mustang said. “If I do become the next Fuhrer, I assure you I will respect any agreements we come to here, and that I will continue my support for the revitalization of Ishval. I will not let the military do what it did to your land as long as I am alive, whether it be here in Ishval or anywhere else.”

Perhaps honesty was contagious or perhaps it was what Miles needed to hear, but the words came fumbling out regardless. Miles looked him up and down, before one side of his mouth upturned in the closest thing to a smile Miles probably ever did.

“I will hold you to that,” he said, and then he was gone.

Suddenly exhausted, Mustang followed him up the stairs soon after. Each step felt heavy, every misdeed he’d committed weighing him down. There was never an assurance of tomorrow, Elder Shan had said, but that did not stop Mustang from dreading tomorrow all the same.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m so excited to finally be posting this story! I saw the Ishvalan AU tag on tumblr (late to the game, I know) and I saw all of the amazing artwork that went with it. I kept daydreaming about stories that would fit with the theme. After reading all of the Ishvalan AUs I could get my hands on (and there aren’t many of them), I knew I had to write one of my own.
> 
> I started working on it in January, but I wanted to be finished with it before I posted it, so here we are. It’ll be about 100,000 words or so. I’m still making edits onto the later chapters, but it’s all written, so there will be a consistent posting schedule: a chapter a week every Tuesday.
> 
> I can’t wait to hear your thoughts about the story, so please review!


	2. Riza Hawkeye I

Chapter 2: Riza Hawkeye I

 

 

Riza Hawkeye quickly decided that rooming with Ariyn Fitzgerald was not ideal. After all, she would have much preferred sleeping with her unit. No one needed to protect her modesty; she’d been in all male units her entire military career, and any squeamishness she might have once had was long since squelched out.

Ariyn, on the other hand, was not used to “roughing it” and complained every moment she was awake. The water wasn’t hot, the windows let in the draft, and the beds weren’t soft enough. Hawkeye encouraged her to take it up with Abra, rightly assuming that Ariyn was all talk. Ariyn grumbled about the firmness of the pillows before falling asleep almost immediately. Riza had never spent time with politicians before, and she wasn’t enjoying her first taste of it. To her, politicians lived in a little bubble, ruling from afar, without any of the repercussions of what they decree. Of course Amestrian politicians had never held much power, so they were useless on top of that.

Riza had always been an early riser, so as soon as the tiniest bit of sun crept over the distant horizon, she awoke with a start, her arm already reaching out to her gun on her bedside. She sighed as she remembered where she was. Ariyn slept on beside her, so Hawkeye prepared for the day quietly. She slipped out of the room a few minutes later and got her first taste of an Ishvalan morning in many years. It was mostly dark out; the sun’s rays stretched close to the ground creating long shadows. No one else was out in the street yet, so Hawkeye sat and watched the sun rise over the desert.

Dawn had always been her favorite time of day. It was quiet but beautiful. Once upon a time, she awoke at dawn for alone time in her house. Her father often worked late into the night, but by dawn, he would be sleeping on his research notes, his head twisted at an odd angle. She would help him into bed, begin breakfast, and start the day’s chores.

She hated everything about her life then. Everything except for the few glorious hours while her father slept and the house was hers. She relished this time, but when her father took on an apprentice, she was disappointed to find that he too was an early riser.

She spent the first few months avoiding him, but one day she caught him watching the sunrise from her favorite spot atop the neighbor’s hill beside the aging oak tree, and they watched the sun rise together. Her father’s apprentice stood quietly, appreciating the dawn with her, their shoulders side by side, and then it became a routine. The few minutes a day Riza spent standing beside Roy Mustang, pretending that she didn’t have a boring life with a dying father and pretending that Mustang was all hers, were among the happiest in her life.

She remained lost in her thoughts until the sun had risen completely and a hand tapped her shoulder.

Riza jumped and Abra laughed.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, dear, but if you’re already up, would you mind helping me carry these pots inside? I don’t know where that boy ran off to so early,” she said, shaking her head. For an older woman, she was remarkably energetic, and she already held two large ceramic pots under each of her arms as though they were as light as newborns.

“Of course,” Hawkeye said, and with Hawkeye’s help, they made quick work of the morning chores. Riza didn’t mind helping Abra. In fact, it was soothing to move her body and put her tensions into tangible accomplishments.

As Riza scrubbed down the table, Abra stopped her work and turned to her, a smirk dancing on her lips.

“Are you married?” Abra asked.

Riza stopped.

“No,” she said and returned to her cleaning. Abra laughed.

“There’s a story there,” she said. “A pretty girl like you doesn’t go into the military for no reason.”

Hawkeye fought to keep the tension from her shoulders and keep her voice light, “I was left alone when my father died. I didn’t have any family. The military gave me an opportunity to start again.”

Abra pushed the few wisps of white hair, which had fallen out of her bun back behind her ear, and Hawkeye was reminded of Rebecca Catalina and her propensity for gossip.

“So you don’t have a man then?” Abra asked. “That doesn’t seem right.” She squinted at Riza, her crimson eyes turning to narrow slits and accentuating the grooves lining her eyes. A flutter of nerves sunk into Riza’s stomach, and she realized she’d experienced more pleasant interrogations. And this was just a gossipy old lady. Was she losing her touch or had Madam Abra missed her true calling as an interrogator? Something about her eyes made Riza feel like a young girl again, trying to explain to her teacher why her father never came to the parent-teacher meeting.

Riza prayed that any of the others would interrupt. Anyone, even including Ariyn Fitzgerald. But she didn’t know if anyone was awake yet.

“No,” Abra continued. “You do have a man… a military man.”

Riza kept her expression neutral, but Abra persisted.

“Ah,” Abra said, and her scrunched face loosened as she’d untangled the mystery. “An unrequited love in the military.”

“Not exactly,” Hawkeye said. “I’m not in _love._ I just… have someone I need to protect.” Her eyes jumped to the stairs, and Abra put two and two together.

“The General,” Abra said, sighing. “We women love a man we can’t have.”

“Love?” Riza spluttered, and Abra shot her a toothy grin.

“Let me tell you a little secret, dear,” she said leaning in close. The cleaning had long since been abandoned. “Many years ago when I lived in Ishval before the war, I was what you’d call… a matchmaker.

“I arranged many marriages. It was something I loved doing. I know you Amestrians haven’t had arranged marriages in many years, but when I was younger, it wasn’t uncommon, especially in the countryside. I arranged hundreds of marriages, including my own, so I am very familiar with that longing face you wear so well. When girls visited me with that face, they were on my doorstep, begging me to plead their case to their families so they could marry the man they loved.”

Abra grabbed Hawkeye’s hands. Her palms were warm and coarse but they reminded Riza of her nebulous memories of her mother.

“Life can be too short or too long, depending on how you live it,” she said.

“Um… I… need to go-” Riza said. But before Abra released her hands, Abra leaned so close Riza could smell the spices she’d been cooking with this morning.   

“Ishvala works in mysterious ways, but She can only do so much. You have to be open to the opportunities She gives you.”

With that, Abra let her hands drop to her side and picked up a rag. She dusted off the nearest table with newfound energy.

“Thank you, Madam,” Riza said, strangely touched by the concern. “But it’s not as simple as you think.”

Abra huffed.

“Sure it isn’t,” she agreed, but Hawkeye got the feeling that she was being condescending.

General Mustang picked that moment to enter the kitchen. Riza’s eyes were drawn toward his entrance. His shoulders were tense, but when his eyes found Riza’s, they loosened immeasurably. Riza ignored Abra biting back laughter.

“Sure, sure. I’m delusional,” Abra muttered as she wrung out her washcloth, and Riza pretended not to hear.

“Ready to go, sir?” Hawkeye asked, and Mustang nodded, leaving Abra behind to chuckle to herself.

“What was that all about?” Mustang asked as soon as they stepped outside. It was only a few hours past sunrise, yet it was scorching out already. The Amestrian uniform was not fit for such heat.

Riza shook her head.

“Nothing, sir,” she said, and luckily, Mustang let the matter drop. Or at least he was forced to because the other Amestrian and Ishvalan delegates began trickling outside into the open square. A few of the security guards wore street clothing and were trying to blend into the local population, who were also beginning to go about their day, but their non-white hair stuck out so much they needn’t have bothered.

‘Good mornings’ were exchanged but the levity of the previous night had worn off. Riza could see the stress Mustang was trying to hide, and she did her best to diminish it the best way she knew how: separate Ariyn Fitzgerald, whose flawless wardrobe and make-up on this already stifling hot morning hinted at Central fashion boutiques and not at Ishvalan peace talks, from the Ishvalan delegates to the best of her ability.

On this first morning, the plan was to tour the highlights of the city of Kedesh: what had been rebuilt and the remnants of what was. It was both to show progress and to demonstrate how much work they still had ahead. It was also the perfect opportunity for photographs and good press. Not that reporters had been invited into Ishval, but the state-issued photographs would be released after all of the dust had settled.

“Excuse me, Captain Hawkeye, but I really must speak with the Elders,” Ariyn finally said, fanning herself with her hand dramatically, after Riza had distracted her with nonsense for long enough. Riza didn’t put up a fight and let Ariyn excuse herself from the pointless conversation they’d been sharing. Hawkeye had done the best she could, and she wasn’t feeling particularly generous after prattling with the representative for the better part of an hour.

As soon as she was freed from Ariyn’s presence, the morning passed quickly. The city itself had once been sprawling and one of the largest in Ishval, but now it was smaller than East City by a significant margin. Riza had never been to Kedesh before; it had been one of the first battlefields of the war, and it had been conquered by the Amestrians years before Riza had stepped foot in Ishval.

However, Kedesh reminded her of other Ishvalan cities she’d been stationed in. It had no logical city layout, just meandering wherever it wished. It hid narrow nooks and corners where two buildings didn’t perfectly meet, but it had much more character than any Amestrian city she’d ever seen.

“Why didn’t you plan out a city grid before you started building? You’re starting from scratch, you could have made it orderly,” Ariyn asked at one point, as they cut through a shortcut in an alleyway across from the Kedeshian school.

“We weren’t looking to make an Amestrian city,” Elder Vikram said frowning. “We’re rebuilding what was here. What had been here for hundreds of years.”

“But how are cars-?” she persisted.

“Representative Fitzgerald,” Elder Shan said, clanking her cane on the stone beneath of her feet. “Just because you do things a certain way, does not make it the right way.”

Ariyn seemed ready to argue, but Mustang, the godsend he was, intervened by asking about the newest educational facilities, and everything was smoothed over well enough.

Ultimately though, there wasn’t much to see. The city itself was a walkable size, and sooner than Riza had expected, Miles informed them that what they’d seen so far was the completed area of Kedesh, and that they would now be led through some of the construction sites.

Soon they were surrounded by half-completed buildings in the midst of assembly. They stood in varying degrees of completion. Some lacked roofs, some had only a first level, some had staircases leading to nowhere, but the outsides all glistened in the sunlight, their white stone walls almost blinding on the cloudless day. (This was to keep out the heat Miles informed them.) And then the travelling group passed the end of the construction, and they reached the edge of the current Kedeshian city line. For a moment, no one said anything.

The city of Kedesh had been large, Riza knew. But the one that currently stood was a small town. While walking through, it had seemed like a normal, small but growing community, but it was deceptively peaceful, for it had been built atop a graveyard. Because just beyond the quaint town’s reach lay ruins for as far as the eye could see. Dilapidated roofs, partially covered by sand dunes, sprawled out next to concrete slabs which may have been walls. There must have been roads weaving through the buildings, but they weren’t evident anymore. Everything had been covered by sand, the desert trying to reclaim its lands.

“We’ve been working on clearing it,” Major Miles said. “It’ll be much easier starting over than trying to rebuild what was there. But there’s only so much we can rebuild.”

“If you need resources-” Mustang began, but Miles raised his hand.

“I meant there isn’t enough Ishvalan population to even populate where the old city was,” he said simply.

No one had anything to say to that, and despite the heat, Riza felt chills shiver down her spine. The rest of the tour continued uneventfully, but Riza couldn’t push the ruins of the Old City of Kedesh from her mind.

Because the city was so small, they didn’t need to take the shortest path back to the inn, so they meandered on the peripheral of the city, but as they circled around, the Ishvalan guides stopped in front of a large stone gate.

It was tall enough that its contents were hidden from the path. Unlike the newly constructed buildings she’d seen, this gate was old, evidenced by deep cracks in the structure. Not large enough to stop it from doing its job or to even see into what it hid, but enough so that the wall was no longer smooth, checkered with damage from the elements.

“This is what you would call… a memorial?” Elder Shan said. “Does that make sense in Amestrian, Grand Cleric Heridas?”

“It’s difficult to explain because there isn’t an equivalent in Amestris,” Scar said. “It’s a memorial, but also like a graveyard without graves. It’s a series of monuments to the oldest families in Ishval.”  

She didn’t quite understand what that meant, but she didn’t know whether he would have elaborated further, because suddenly, the ground shook, and they heard the distant, but distinct, booming echo of an explosion.

For a split second, Hawkeye forgot where she was, when she was. Suddenly, it was like she was back during the War again, and she could almost feel the gunshots’ cracking through the air.  Riza felt her body flood with adrenaline, and she shook off memories long suppressed.  

“What was that?” Mustang asked, but the Ishvalans were just as confused as the Amestrians.

“It seemed to come from the train station,” Breda said, pointing back towards Abra’s inn. Sure enough, when Riza squinted, she could distinguish a small cloud of smoke hovering in the distance. The group split into two, so that the most mobile members of the party could sprint toward the smoke.

“According to the press releases, the Fuhrer was supposed to be arriving today,” Mustang muttered to her as they ran through the winding streets. They were on the outskirts of town, so they didn’t have to worry about frightening many civilians. The streets were still foreign to the Amestrians, but luckily, Scar was the fastest, so he led them through the twisting alleyways and crevices with familiarity. The few civilians they did pass leaped out of the way of the running soldiers. She knew they probably held as many horrible memories of the war as she did. These were a people very familiar with the sounds of an explosion. 

“An assassination attempt? On the Fuhrer?” Riza asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Say,” Riza said. “When was Edward supposed to arrive?”

Mustang checked his watch and let out a series of expletives.

“That kid just can’t stay out of trouble,” Breda said, as they turned the corner out of the town and onto the open road leading to the train station. Now they could see a billowing smoke fume, but it was smaller than Hawkeye would have expected for the sound it caused.

Both the Amestrians and the Ishvalans were ready for a panicked crowd when they arrived at the train station, but while smoke still hovered over the train, the train was completely intact, and there were no screaming or injured persons to be found. Instead, an orderly evacuation had taken place, as though the train had simply run out of fuel. But that explosion had to have come from somewhere.

Leading the evacuation was a blond civilian, and as he spoke with a young girl, he pointed back to the train, which revealed a long blond braid over his right shoulder.

“Fullmetal,” Mustang said, striding over. “Why am I not surprised that the moment you arrive you’re causing trouble?”

Edward made an exaggerated frown of disgust.

“Don’t you see I’m helping the public good here?” he yelled back, which made the young girl he’d been assisting flee. “Why is everything my fault?”

“What? Did someone say something? I can’t see anything except for a tiny-”

Riza knew a shouting match was coming and tuned them out with practiced ease.

“I’ve missed this,” Breda muttered to her, before he greeted Edward too. Riza couldn’t help but agree, but they had more important issues to address.

“What happened here, Edward?” she asked, but Edward shook his head.

“I dunno. I was on the train, and it was pulling up to the station, and then there was some explosion from outside the train. Maybe a mile down the tracks? But there wasn’t any damage to anything I’ve seen or to anyone. Who would do something like this?”

“Ishval has many enemies,” Major Miles said, his eyes cold and lips narrow.   

“So does the Fuhrer,” Mustang said. At the Ishvalans’ questioning glances, he muttered, “Not here.”

This was about when Edward seemed to notice Scar, who was hovering back from the group.

“Thought you died on the Promised Day,” Edward shouted out as a greeting.

“Disappointed?” Scar asked, raising an eyebrow. Edward shrugged, and that was that.

The evacuation of the train had mostly finished at this point, so while Major Miles stayed to investigate the train and seek the explosion site itself, everyone else accompanied Edward back to their lodgings. Mustang and Edward sniped insults back and forth, and Breda, bless his soul, was making sure that neither said something they might later regret.

Riza hung back, checking for dangers more out of habit than actual fear. Whoever had caused the explosion had to be long gone by now. With her slower pace, she found herself walking in stride with Scar.

“He looks like a young man now,” Scar said.

“That’s what happens,” she said. “It’s already been a year.”

“Civilian life suits him,” he said. Against the dirt road, their steps were quiet. The sun beat down on them, and Riza wished she could trade in her uniform for something like Edward’s clothing choice: a loose shirt and light pants. Anything but the cotton which clung to every inch of skin like a sponge.

“I think General Mustang disagrees,” Riza said finally. “He sees in Edward what every soldier should be. Kindness towards those weaker than him, an unwillingness to take a life, and a strong moral compass. Amestris could do a lot worse than him.”

Scar nodded. “I suppose.”

The walk to the inn felt shorter than it had yesterday, and soon Edward was shown to his room, promising to socialize as soon as he unpacked.

Civilian life did suit Edward, Riza could see. But it wasn’t just that he’d given up being a dog of the military. He’d also succeeded in his one goal he’d held for as long as she’d known him: getting Alphonse’s body back. Not to mention he’d defeated the crazy homunculus (who looked like his absentee father) and helped save Amestris from destruction. The weight of the world was off of his shoulders, and he practically glowed. He strode with an easy swagger, hinting of confidence, but not the faux-cockiness he’d once used to strut around Eastern Command.

Although Winry had kept her updated on Edward’s progress, it was much different seeing him in person. Riza eagerly anticipated Alphonse’s arrival next, because the last time she’d seen him, he’d only had his body back for two weeks. His ribs still jutted out, and he couldn’t walk without assistance. He could only eat a few bites at a time, and his eyes were sunken as though he were deathly ill. But it was the exact opposite of that. He was now suddenly alive, and she couldn’t wait to see him.   

While they awaited Edward’s reappearance, the rest of the group returned, led by the Fuhrer and the two Ishvalan elders. Havoc and Major Wilson made up the rear, and the inn which had been so quiet when they’d arrived, was suddenly bubbling with energy. In the daytime, it was much less grim, and with sunshine pouring in from the windows, it was actually inviting.

Hawkeye was quickly brought into a heated discussion on the earlier explosion. There had been no casualties, not so much as a scratch on anyone.

“The Fuhrer was supposed to be on that train, according to last week’s papers,” Hawkeye said. “Maybe once someone realized the Fuhrer wasn’t on the train, he made a diversion and fled.”

“That’s as good an idea as we have,” Mustang said, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Have you many enemies, Fuhrer Grumman?” Elder Vikram asked, which made Grumman laugh.

“Many, but fewer who would resort to such dramatics,” he said, wiping a few tears from his eyes, but his face darkened as they continued turning over the strange attack.

“This is indeed troubling,” said Elder Shan, speaking for the first time.

It was at this moment that Edward bounded down the stairs and into the lounge.

“Chief!” Havoc yelled.

“Havoc! Nice to see you. You look better. No cane anymore?”

“He’s supposed to be using it,” Mustang interjected.

“Yeah, and you’re supposed to be using your glasses,” Havoc said with a glower.

Edward surveyed the room, stopping at the Elders. He stepped away from Havoc and Mustang, who were busy glaring at each other, and as soon as he approached Elders Vikram and Shan, he bowed, keeping his legs and back straight. They appeared surprised but returned it in kind.

“Madam Shan,” Edward said.

“You’re the friend of the Rockbells,” she said.

Elder Vikram turned to her, “You know this boy?”

“We met in Xerxes,” Edward said. “I didn’t know you were back in Ishval. Did all of the Ishvalans from Xerxes return?”

Elder Shan nodded.

“I passed along your message,” Edward said, but didn’t elaborate.

“Thank you,” Elder Shan said. “I appreciate it greatly.”

“Actually,” Edward said. “My brother and a friend of ours are coming to Ishval in a few days. This friend is… the Rockbells’ daughter, Winry.”

Scar, who’d been leaning on the window, stiffened.

“Many of us would love to meet this friend of yours and give her our thanks,” Elder Shan said.

“She’d like that,” Edward said, running his fingers through his hair. Rather than the glint of metal she expected, his fingers were flesh. Of course. She knew he’d gotten his arm back, but it was still surprising to see Edward with matching flesh arms.

“Why is that boy here?” Ariyn whispered to Riza, so she had to draw her attention away from Edward and focus on something decidedly less enjoyable. She couldn’t keep the displeasure from her face.

“That’s the Fullmetal Alchemist.”

Ariyn gasped.

“Him? He’s just a kid. How could he-” she broke off, shaking her head. “How could the military recruit a kid?”

“I imagine he was a better alchemist at age ten than most of our state alchemists are currently,” Riza said dryly.

“General Mustang excluded, right?” Ariyn asked.

Riza did not roll her eyes but she desperately wanted to. Instead she settled on a non-committal shake of the head.

“But why is he here? He’s not even a State Alchemist anymore, right? I heard that he quit after Bradley died. Maybe he was a hardcore Bradley supporter,” Ariyn said.

Riza made up an answer about his unique insights into Ishvalan affairs, but Ariyn was mostly right. Edward didn’t really belong here, except that he was a good face for publicity. The tale of the Fullmetal Alchemist as the ‘alchemist of the people’ was great press for the military, but Edward hadn’t been invited so much as Winry announced that they would be there, and Hawkeye accepted it without argument. She suspected that it was largely led by Winry’s desire to find closure with her parents’ work.

“You must have missed us so much,” Havoc said. “It’s pretty boring in Resembool, isn’t it? You missed the hustle and bustle of Central?”

Edward laughed, “Afraid not, Havoc, I’m very happy living a quiet life in the countryside. Unlike you.”

“I’ll have you know-” Havoc began, but Elder Vikram cleared his throat.

“May we continue with the actual purpose of this meeting?” he asked, but it wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

Tension rushed through Hawkeye but it was assuaged when Elder Shan rolled her eyes.

“How about some food first, and then back to business, yes?”

Abra, seemingly waiting for this exact moment, paraded into the inn with the young boy from last night, carrying a tray of exotic foods. Riza imagined that they were as spicy as the offerings from last night, but she could barely taste the food through her stress. All she could do was sit on the edge of her seat and hope no one blundered too severely.

After the meal, the group gathered outside of the inn again, Edward now included. The photographer snapped numerous pictures, and they wasted at least twenty minutes finding the best angle and lighting. Hawkeye thought Scar was going to murder the photographer, not that she was overjoyed at standing in the hot sun for no reason but public perception. The only person who was the least bit comfortable was Ariyn Fitzgerald. This was her time to shine. She encouraged different poses, from handshakes between the different heads to different breakdowns of group photos. Somehow she was in almost every one, her phony grin stretching across her face, displaying shiny teeth.

When that ordeal finally ended, the consensus was that whatever Ishvalan issue they were to confront couldn’t be as bad as that.

Most of the serious work was to be done after the Fuhrer had left and took his over-sized security detail with him, but while he was here, it would be easier demonstrating the sincerity of the Amestrians.  Of course the Fuhrer would follow the Accords with regular updates from General Mustang, but it was difficult to hash out ideas through intermediaries.

The first issue on the table was transportation. It was the easiest of the immediate problems that were slowing down a lot of the Ishvalan rebuilding process, but it would be a solid foundation for the rest of the Accords. However, despite it being the easiest, it wasn’t exactly easy. Much of the readings Mustang had to power through (which meant Hawkeye often had to read them) involved this very question.

“Ishvalan cities are now like islands,” Major Miles said, as soon as they returned into the inn. They settled in the dining room in the back, all crowded around a long table. Ishvalans on one end, Amestrians the other. However, the Amestrian numbers nearly doubled the Ishvalans which didn’t feel right.  “Ishvalans are trying to rebuild their old towns, none as large as Kedesh, but there have been efforts across Ishval. But there is nothing connecting them.”

Before the War, he explained, there had been a rudimentary railroad, which Hawkeye was very familiar with. As the Amestrian military marched eastward through Ishval they tore the tracks, isolating the Ishvalan survivors further until the military could come through and… dispose of them.

“A modern railway is key to connecting Ishval and to connecting it to the rest of Amestris.”

“The money and manpower involved would be gargantuan,” Ariyn Fitzgerald said. Her face was schooled blank, but she kept clawing at the table with her over-sized fingernails. An old nervous habit, perhaps? “How are we supposed to afford any of this?”

“But you could afford your super powered military,” Scar bit back, and Hawkeye couldn’t hide a smile. Luckily, Ariyn didn’t turn around.

“We could pay for Ishvalan workers to help build it. It kick starts the economy and gets the trains built,” Mustang said, directing the conversation back to the issue.

“It’s not quite that simple, Mustang,” Ariyn said, a fake smile plastered to her face. “The money has to come from somewhere. Why should the people of my state pay for a system which will not benefit them in any way and furthermore-”

“If you don’t think that any money will pass from Amestris to Ishval, you can kindly walk out of here with the rest of your dignity intact,” Scar said, and honestly, Riza thought he was restraining himself very well.

“I’m not saying no money,” Ariyn said, barely holding the faux smile to her lips. Her fingers twitched but stopped the clawing motion. “But since last year’s drought, I can’t ask for my constituents to pay more taxes for a railroad that will be needlessly expensive and long. There isn’t a practical way to connect all of the cities to each other and to Amestris without overburdening-”

“If you’re going to spend this whole time-” Scar began.

“Excuse me,” Edward said, and every head whipped towards him. Thus far he’d been silent, even when subjected to the earlier photography session (though he couldn’t hide the grimaces every time the camera flashed). “Why are you talking about this? This is stupid.”

“Boy, you can’t possibly understand-”

“No, you don’t understand,” Edward said. “This isn’t the enormous undertaking that any of you think it is, at least at first. Does anyone have a map of Amestris?”

Ariyn Fitzgerald was seemingly so shocked, she’d lost all power of speech (Riza vowed to learn that trick), and Major Miles handed him a map. Edward pulled a pen from his pocket.

“See, I don’t know a lot about all this politics stuff, but I do know train stations. I practically lived in them.”

He started drawing in the train stations in the Eastern region on the map, hesitating for a moment over Resembool, before circling it, East City, Kedesh, and a few other Ishvalan cities.

“What are you doing?” Scar asked.

“Give me a second, okay?” Edward said, as he connected the circles together. For a moment Riza thought he had drawn a transmutation circle, but instead it seemed like random shapes.

“Okay, so like I said, I know train stations pretty well. For me to get here from Resembool I had to take a train from there to East City and then through Giyoir to Kedesh, which is really annoying,” he said, pointing to the different cities on the map as he spoke of them. “Because Resembool is actually really close to Ishval, but there’s no way to go there directly.

“Kedesh isn’t close to a lot of these other Ishvalan cities so building the train tracks to connect them all would be difficult. But if you connect Resembool,” Edward said, before adding, “It doesn’t have to be Resembool, you could go with another Amestrian city nearby. Or Fenief in the South. But if you connect these major Ishvalan cities to Amestrian towns, a lot of the access problems go away. You’ll need a lot less track and the cities will be at least somewhat connected.

“It’s not a long term solution, but it doesn’t seem like you guys can afford wasting all of your manpower on building a train when there are still so many cities in ruin. So…? What do you think?”

Silence reigned for a solid ten seconds.

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Edward said.

“No,” Mustang replied. “It wasn’t bad at all.” Hawkeye got the feeling that Mustang was hiding a severe jealousy of the ease at which Edward seemingly did everything.

“We’ll have to run it by the Parliament before you can do anything,” Ariyn mumbled, and Edward’s proposal was tweaked several times. But by the end of the day, Hawkeye felt like something had actually been accomplished.

“That was pretty impressive, Edward,” Riza said that night, after most of the military men had gone upstairs.

“I guess,” he said.

“No, it really was.” Riza paused. “Is this the real reason you wanted to come down here? Because you wanted to make a difference again?”

Edward sighed.

“I don’t know. Not really,” he said, playing with his braid. The sun had already set, which left the lounge cloaked in shadow. “It was important for me to come here, but I am not sure exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Well while you wait, you’re certainly welcome to keep doing whatever you’re doing,” she said.

Edward had this unique energy that, despite his temper and his unreasonable skills for someone his age, made him likeable and trustworthy, even to people he’d never met before. Elder Vikram, who hadn’t cracked a genuine smile since Riza met him, didn’t glare at him once, which Hawkeye thought was a miracle.

“I just wish I could do more though,” Edward said, staring around the lounge. He looked everywhere but at Riza’s face. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought that he was scared. It was easy to forget how young he was. He’d been through so much, and it wasn’t fair that he’d had to shoulder the burden of his family and his country.

Something about his expression reminded her of soldiers recently returned from war. They couldn’t quite fit into their old lives because they weren’t the same people they were when they’d left. They’d seen things, done things, that their families couldn’t understand, and they struggled to reconcile the disparate sides of themselves.

“You’re… you’re not responsible for Ishval,” she said, finally deciding to pour herself a drink from behind the bar. She opened a promising bottle of mud-colored liquid and took a whiff. It was strong, which was exactly what she wanted, so she poured a small glass for herself and offered Edward a drink. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. She downed it in one gulp.

“You had nothing to do with what happened here. You were just a kid. Just because you were in the military, doesn’t mean you’re to blame for all of this destruction.”

“Ishval is my burden to bear too,” he said, playing with his hands in his lap. He turned to her and Hawkeye wasn’t sure what emotions Edward read on her face, but he immediately backtracked.

“I mean it’s everyone in Amestris’ burden, right? If Ishval is gonna be a part of Amestris again, like a real part, then we all have to fix it, right?”

Riza nodded, “That’s true.”

They fell into silence for a few minutes, and Edward stood up and peered out the window. There weren’t many lights outside, so she doubted he could see more than a few feet. Still, he stood there like a guard dog, eyes darting from side to side.

“There’s one thing I can’t understand, Edward,” Hawkeye said, feeling the dull warmth from the booze lick at the confusion in her mind.  

“Hm?” he said, not looking away from the window.

“How’d you know about the specifics of the Ishvalan cities? The ones you circled. Those were the cities the Ishvalans _were_ most interested in getting connected to the railways, but they weren’t even the biggest ones, so how’d you know which ones they’d want?”

Edward turned back towards her and smiled, “I just read a lot, that’s all. Hohenheim had a lot of books on Ishval when we were growing up. After he left, I read almost everything he had. A lot of the cities on the list were places with religious significance.”

He itched his cheek, and Hawkeye dropped the matter.

“Captain Hawkeye?” Edward asked.

“You can call me Riza, Edward, you’re not in the military anymore.”

“Riza, then,” he said, wrapping his arms across his chest. “Do you ever feel like your life had a purpose you were meant to achieve, like something you were meant to do, but you ignored it and didn’t do it?”

“Is this about leaving the military? Or your alchemy?” Riza asked, unable to keep the speculations falling from her lips. But rather than offending him, Edward laughed.

“No, not at all, never mind,” he said and turned back towards the stairs.

“I have felt that way before,” she blurted out before Edward could leave. He spun back. “When I first joined the military, I thought I was doing something noble, but I learned very quickly I wasn’t.” Riza paused. She hadn’t meant to go in depth about her own back story, but then again, there were few people who knew more about her life than Edward, and he was, for all of his loud-mouthed tendencies, a good listener.

“I had a lot of trouble dealing with that, especially when I went back after the War. I kept thinking that I had misread the signs, that the war wasn’t the place I was supposed to end up. Maybe I was supposed to be a chef or a journalist, and that it was my own fault for misreading the signs that I ever became a soldier. But wondering about ‘what ifs’ will drive you mad. You can’t dwell on what should have been, even if maybe it didn’t turn out how you wanted. You just have to keep-”

“Moving forward, yeah, I know,” Edward said. “But I don’t know where my forward leads.”

It wasn’t a surprise that after having one single goal as his entire essence for years, once he achieved it and got Al his body back, he wouldn’t know what to do.

“Sometimes the most important thing isn’t what you’re going to do but who you’re going to be with.”

Edward blushed, and she knew he remembered their conversation about Winry. She could push him in the right direction: what was the harm in that? She quieted the voice in her head that said that she was no better than Abra and her matchmaking.

She didn’t have the chance though because he quickly retired, and she followed him up the stairs. She was thankful that Ariyn was already asleep when she returned.

But as she laid in bed, she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about Edward. Not that he wasn’t trustworthy and if he _was_ lying about his reason in Ishval, he certainly must have had a good explanation. Probably protecting someone, knowing him.

It was a mystery that Riza knew she should just let go. It wasn’t important, in comparison to the Ishvalan Accords and the averted bombing of the train, but those weren’t the issues keeping her up. It was the glimpse of sadness, betrayed by the tenderness in Edward’s eyes and the weight on his shoulders, which hadn’t even seemed to be there when he arrived this afternoon.

When Riza finally fell asleep, she dreamed of red-eyed children shot by distant bullets and drowned in uncontrollable fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for all of the support so far! I’m really glad that so many of you are enjoying it. 
> 
> Just a quick remark: I’ve been calling this story “98% canon.” It’s canon from the timeline of the first episode to the last episode EXCEPT for a few things: 
> 
> 1\. Things that took place outside the timeline of the story like flashbacks (of the Elrics’ childhood) or Winry/Edward at the very end (because this story is only a year after the Promised Day)  
> 2\. Roy will NEVER grows a moustache. This is not important for anything except just a general note. It’s a poor look for him, and I’ll never subject you to that.  
> 3\. I played around with the timeline a bit, essentially moving the Ishvalan War from 1901-1909 (which is canon) to 1896-1904. This means that all of our characters: Mustang, the Elrics, etc. experienced the war at a younger age. 
> 
> Is any of this stuff important? Probably not to anyone except me. But it’s just an aside if that kind of thing is interesting to you. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if you enjoyed it, I’d love a review!


	3. Major Miles I

Chapter 3: Major Miles I

Major Miles awoke to Scar’s murmured Ishvalan prayers by the window. Being a light sleeper was often an advantage, and it had saved him from quite a few pranks during his days at the academy, but he wished he wouldn’t keep waking with Scar’s daily dawn prayers.

Scar kneeled and pressed his forehead to the floor, his broad shoulders hidden behind his body. The words pouring melodically from his lips were unfamiliar to Miles, though he’d heard the morning prayers many times since he’d arrived in Ishval.

Knowing he wouldn’t fall back to sleep, Miles rose for the day.

Although Miles sat on the Ishvalan side of the Accords, he was a pretty poor Ishvalan citizen. He was only a quarter Ishvalan, was inarticulate in the Ishvalan language (though he was improving), and had been raised in Amestris with Amestrian customs. He was about as familiar with Ishvalan traditions as Mustang was, or at least that was the case a year ago. Miles had studied diligently on everything he could about his grandfather’s land, but it was different than being raised in it.

For weeks after he arrived in Kedesh, people would approach him with Ishvalan on their tongues, but after his blank stares, they’d switch to Amestrian. He was relieved that he hadn’t faced condemnation at his ignorance. They liked that he was, at the very least, trying.

Even if he did wear the Amestrian uniform.

He’d been warned against wearing it, but Miles refused to cave into the pressure to change. It was no different than what he’d done in Briggs: he wanted to show the Ishvalans that not all of the Amestrian soldiers were against them. That they had one of their own on their side. He wasn’t sure if it was working, and the uniform was awful in the heat, but he wasn’t the second-in-command at Briggs for nothing.

For the Ishvalan Accords, however, he’d wanted to show a united Ishvalan front, so he exchanged his stiff blue for more classical Ishvalan fare. The moment he’d put it on he’d realized how stupid he’d been to adhere to his uniform for so long. Ishvalan clothing was designed for the heat, and he no longer felt like he was suffocating every time he stepped outside. With just a loose tunic, he looked the part, but it wasn’t complete without the classic symbol of Ishval and the Ishvalan religion: the burgundy and golden sash.

Although most Ishvalans wore it, it reminded him most strongly of his grandfather. He’d been the only practicer of the Ishvalan religion Miles had known until now, though he had few memories of him. All Miles could remember were the moments he’d crouch on the floor, his wispy white hair touching the ground, muttering what sounded like nonsense words, praying to a god that couldn’t or didn’t listen. He died soon after that from illness, and the only thing that remained from him were his Ishvalan features, splashed across Miles’ face and his father’s.

And his father liked to pretend that their family was a typical Amestrian one. Which, logistically, it was. There were no keepers of the Ishvalan faith within it anymore.

But it could never be that way when they carried the sin of their birth on their face.

Even though Miles felt like an outsider in Ishval, an Amestrian cloaked Ishvalan features, he loved seeing people who looked like him. These were people who didn’t hide their blood red eyes; these were _his_ people. So he’d put away his glasses for good, appreciating the way the world looked without a darkened tint.

The morning didn’t have any official meetings planned, a short reprieve before the tumultuous topic of the evening, the central issue that they’d been dancing around so far: what was Ishval to Amestris? A region with representation in the Parliament? A subsection of the Eastern region? How much jurisdiction did Amestris have within Ishval? Should Ishval even be a part of Amestris anymore?

Miles was not looking forward to it at all. He believed that Ishval was a part of Amestris. Sure, maybe it was designed that way to make Amestris a giant transmutation circle once upon a time, but Ishval was Amestris’ problem after they’d destroyed it. Ishval’s unique customs and traditions required an increased flexibility and independence relative to the other regions, of course, but a part of Amestris it should remain. Miles knew that there would be many disagreements on this, but he dreaded Ariyn Fitzgerald’s the most. On the very first day the Fuhrer had pulled him aside to warn about her and her desired power grab for the Parliament.

Miles didn’t need anyone to tell him that. She oozed a sleaziness he hadn’t seen since his days at the academy, when all of the untalented students tried to suck up to their teachers. It was the way she smiled too broadly, likely hiding how much she’d like to crush you under her posh boots. However, the most annoying thing was that she didn’t like to give her opinion on anything. Sure, she’d talk a lot, but it was always about what her “constituents” would like or what would be “feasible in Central.” She never used her own opinion as justification for anything, and it drove Miles up the wall.  

If there was anything beneficial about her presence, it was that it united the Amestrians and the Ishvalans over a common enemy. Although she’d been relatively quiet thus far, Miles vowed not to become complacent. The damage she could inflict in the Parliament was vast, especially given the importance of public opinion. Ishvalans could not become Amestrian citizens without public opinion on their side. Luckily, many Amestrians felt so guilty over the war that this wouldn’t be too difficult.

By the time Miles finished preparing for the day and exited the inn, the sand had already soaked up the sun’s warmth, so the heat seemed to be emanating from everywhere.

Miles did have an apartment in Kedesh, but staying at the inn during the peace talks was supposed to foster community. Miles thought it was foolish to inconvenience Madam Abra but didn’t protest. It was certainly convenient, but this meant Miles hadn’t checked on his apartment in a few days.

It was a small thing, half the size of his barracks at Briggs, and that wasn’t luxury living. But it was sufficient for what he needed, and one of the most basic lessons he’d learned under General Armstrong was that leaders had to be prepared to lead by example. No use in extravagant living quarters for himself when the Ishvalans were still struggling.

He checked that everything was in order at his place and fixed a quick meal, and as he left, he greeted all of his neighbors who were departing for work. They wished him luck at the Accords, and he promised to fight for their best interests. Sure, he wasn’t a social butterfly, and his curt style befit the military more than civilians, but he’d been so humbled when the Ishvalans welcomed him, even though he was only Ishvalan in appearance, he made an effort to repay their kindness.

Equivalent exchange, he thought wryly.

After being trapped inside the Briggs fortress for weeks at a time, he enjoyed strolling through the twisting, unstructured streets of Kedesh. He wandered through the open-air market, cutting through the center of town. Per usual, it was bursting with people. Most were venders, still setting up their stands, which held plump fruits, flower displays, or little crafts. It was too early for most of the food carts to open, but the scent of the cooking meat, in preparation for the busy lunchtime ahead, seemed to coat the entire length of the market.

But there were a few shoppers too, and a few, like Miles, just window shopping. Some stands were large enough to stand in but most were small, just echoes of what used to be. That’s what everyone told him anyway. For an Amestrian, it was all impressive regardless.

About halfway through the market, Miles spotted a flash of blond out of the corner of his eye.

He would bet money it was Edward Elric.

And if it was him, he was probably going to get into trouble. He somehow seemed to attract it. Usually Miles wouldn’t care; Edward wasn’t a child, and if he wanted to overpay for market goods without haggling, he was welcome to boost the local economy.

But Miles couldn’t shake off a bad feeling. If something serious happened to Edward, the Ishvalan Accords would suffer. After all, the Ishvalan War began by the death of a single child, so despite his wish for a pleasant stroll, Miles followed Edward.

Miles weaved through the throngs of people, seeking the blond braid Edward was known for. After nearly tripping over an old man peddling cabbages, he spotted Edward at the flower stand closest to the far side of the city. It was run by an elderly woman, and although the soil in Ishval was not good for flowers, hers were the most beautiful in Kedesh.

As Miles approached, he tried to hear the snippets of their conversation, but by the time he got close enough, Edward was bowing to the woman and walking away, a bundle tucked under his arm.

Miles couldn’t think of a single reason Edward would need flowers, but honestly, it wasn’t any of Miles’ business. He was tempted to just forget the whole exchange and enjoy the few hours he had left before he was forced to spend time with Ariyn Fitzgerald. But Miles, despite his standard of militaristic perfection for himself, was nosy.

And after all, he reasoned, it would be difficult to confront him about it later. No, the best approach was the frontal one.

“Edward!” Miles shouted. Edward froze.  

“Hi, Major Miles,” he said, faux-casually. The kid was a horrible liar at least, which made his job easier.

“What are you doing here?” Miles asked, his voice straining to be heard above rhythmic music filtering from the closest stand.

“Oh, this and that,” Edward said. He wasn’t hiding the bundle exactly, but he pressed it against his side, as though Miles couldn’t see it.

“What have you got there? Flowers?” Miles asked.

“Yeah. So?”

“Why’d you get flowers? Why are you out here? It’s dangerous for you to be out alone,” Miles said, trying not to sound like a nagging parent. The longer he spoke with Edward, the more he wished he’d never spotted Edward in the first place.  

Edward sighed, “I’m fine. I was just getting all crazy stuck in my room.”

“And the flowers?” Miles continued.

“No reason. They just looked nice,” Edward said. “What of it?”

Miles didn’t have an answer for that; pretty flowers hadn’t factored into his calculation.

“Would you like me to take you back to the inn now, Edward? I wouldn’t want you getting lost,” Miles said, but Edward shook his head.

“No, I was just clearing my head. Walking helps me think,” he said. “I won’t get lost, don’t worry.” He threw on a goofy grin, and Miles reluctantly agreed. They bid farewell, and Edward continued walking towards the edge of the market.

Miles sighed, knowing he had way better things to do than follow a kid around, but ultimately, he couldn’t think of any. All he could imagine were scenarios where Edward got into trouble, and then it would be way more of a hassle. So much for his time off.

Miles pursued Edward, his long steps sure to catch up to Edward’s quickly. Luckily, a red scarf hung loosely around Edward’s neck, which made him easily recognizable. Miles remained a sizable distance behind, but kept his eyes on the scarf. When Edward turned off of a busy road, he lifted the scarf over his blond hair as a hood. Miles was more intrigued than before but couldn’t immediately follow. It was too suspicious.

So he sprinted the long way around, passing by the newest apartments. He was greeted by multiple people as he swept past but didn’t stop. When he reached the exit of the connecting alleyways, Edward was gone.

Miles, deciding he had probably wasted enough time, admitted defeat and slunk away. But before he’d left the alley, he heard uneven footsteps, one soft and one firmer against the sand. Automail. Edward. Miles slipped into a crevice in the building, silent until the boy passed.

At this point, it was ridiculous to be following him. He felt like a teenage stalker.

And yet, to put in all this effort for nothing…

He followed Edward at a distance, but when Edward stopped, Miles scrambled to hide again. However, Edward, lost in this thoughts, didn’t turn around, apparently arriving at his destination. Miles couldn’t see his expression, Edward’s face cloaked by the hood, but he couldn’t understand why Edward would come here.

It was the Ishvalan Memorial, or, as the Ishvalans called it, _Zikkaron_ , the commemoration of the founding families of Ishval.

As an Ishvalan, Miles should understand more than the basics of what the _Zikkaron_ was, but while trying to rebuild Kedesh, the historical Ishvalan Memorial had been brushed over. A few community members maintained the area in their spare time, but in the scheme of Ishvalan recovery, Miles hadn’t thought it terribly important.  And when he’d expressed any interest in going inside, he’d been quickly rebuffed.

“Unless you are a member of an ancient family, you shouldn’t venture inside the _Zikkaron,”_ a priest had warned him. “It’s disrespectful to the dead.”

His knowledge of Ishvalan lore was limited, so he’d let it go without any fuss. The only reason to even go inside would be to appreciate Ishvalan history, and he hardly had the time for that.

All he did know was that it wasn’t a traditional Amestrian graveyard. Rather, it was a place where people could honor their loved ones. But only some.

Hundreds of years ago, Kedesh was the only city of Ishval, and it held about a hundred families. Ishval grew and expanded outward, but these olden families, who dated their histories back to the founding of Ishval, were greatly respected. The _Zikkaron_ had a monument to each of these families.

Few of the families still had living members. Over hundreds of years, disease, famine, and war had ended many of the ancient lines. And, of course, the Ishvalan War had killed most of the rest.

So why was Edward here?

Although Miles didn’t care much if Edward trespassed on the holy land (Miles’ own relationship with Ishvala was complicated), any Ishvalan who saw him would not be so forgiving at Edward’s insolence.

Miles hesitated outside the stone gates. They didn’t seem very inviting, but although they stood taller than Miles, the entrance was just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.

There was no going back now. He slipped through the gates and was faced with a memorial unlike anything he’d expected.

He’d imagined a series of gravestones in orderly rows commemorating the different Ishvalan families. Like he’d seen in Amestrian graveyards, but these were not mere gravestones. The way it had been described to him, as “monuments” to each family, was more accurate than he’d expected.

These were elaborate exhibits, gaudy and impressive, despite their age. Some were of mystical creatures, carved next to triumphant crowds. Others were of people. One woman reached her arm toward the heavens with longing. Another man sat atop a horse, a curved sword pointed outward. Most of the displays towered over Miles, but every single one was entirely white, like freshly fallen snow.

Every piece was completely different. Others more resembled mausoleums, with their outsides decorated with small carvings. However, because the monuments were so large, Edward was nowhere to be found.

Even though no bodies rested here, the hairs on Miles’ neck stood on end. He couldn’t explain why this place felt so creepy, but he brushed it aside as he spotted a flash of red in the distance.

He slinked over to Edward, finally hiding behind the statue of a young woman upon a pedestal, engraved with an Ishvalan word he didn’t know. The statue bore the traditional Ishvalan attire, but it leered down at Miles, as if it knew he were trespassing.

If Edward caught him, Miles didn’t know what he would even say, so he remained at a distance. He was too far to hear anything Edward might have said, so he merely watched as Edward kneeled in front of a massive stone slate. He unwrapped the flowers, revealing their pure white color, and lay the bundle beside him. Although he couldn’t see the exact shape of the flowers, Miles suddenly realized that these were _Kameli_ flowers, which were signs of Ishvalan mourning.

Miles had invaded something deeply personal, and suddenly, he couldn’t force himself to stay for a moment longer. On the last peak Miles chanced, he saw Edward’s shoulders shaking, and Miles felt dirty for snooping as long as he had.

However, as he slipped back through the stone gates, he realized he now had even more questions than before. Who was Edward visiting, how had he known Ishvalan memorial customs, and why did Miles still have a strange feeling, despite the fact that there was a rational explanation?

It was feasible that Edward could have come across an Ishvalan in his travels who has recently died and was a member of one of the ancient families memorialized there. But that felt awfully suspicious.

There were very few ancient families with living members Edward could have met.

Miles cursed himself for not learning all he could on Ishvalan death rites (there had been remarkably few funerals since he’d arrived). Although Miles could ask another Ishvalan, he’d be forced to expose Edward’s faux-pas in visiting the _Zikkaron_ , which Miles wouldn’t consider.

Miles didn’t want to retreat in failure back to the inn, and the sun wasn’t even at its peak yet, so he still had free time before getting trapped in a small room with Ariyn Fitzgerald and the other Amestrians.  So Miles found himself wandering back through the open-air market, which was considerably busier than it had been earlier this morning. It bustled with energy from lunch-seekers and shoppers alike.

Many people stopped Miles as he walked, and he made sure to speak to each of them. One teenage boy complained about the presence of the Amestrians, to which Miles tried to assuage his concerns. Another woman sought a monetary payment from the Amestrians for the thriving business she’d run before the War.

The concerns of the Ishvalans were expected and logical, but Miles couldn’t provide more than platitudes of justice. He hated lying, but he had a duty as a leader to do what was best for all of Ishval, for now and the future, not just take money from the Amestrians and declare independence.  

Lost in thought, Miles reached the end of the market without noticing. Then he noticed the flower stand Edward had stopped at.

What did Miles have to lose except time?

He maneuvered around the hordes of shoppers in a way he wouldn’t have just six months before, all but pushing people out of the way. (Which was how people moved there. It wasn’t rude; it was how it was done.)

“Madam, may I take a few minutes of your time?” Miles asked, as he approached the flower stand. The woman running it smiled, revealing her missing front teeth. She leaned forward and greeted him in Ishvalan. He was able to return it, but when she said something else, he caught only the word for ‘buy.’

“Major Miles, right?” she asked, after he didn’t respond.

“Yes, Madam…?”

“Jayanti,” she supplied. “Do you want some flowers? I can get them to you at half the price of those thieves down the road.” She grinned. “No? I suppose not then.”

“I’m not in the market for flowers, but I will pay you for some knowledge,” he said. But before he could check how much was in his pocket, Madam Jayanti laughed.

“Knowledge is free,” she said. “If I’m going to tell you something, I’ll tell you. If I’m going to hide something, then there’s no point in money, is there?”

Miles cracked his first smile of the day, “A blond Amestrian boy came by and bought white flowers about… an hour ago?”

“Hm?” she said. “Oh yes. He was very kind. Too many of those _Kemeli_ flowers get sold these days.”

“Did he ask for the _Kemeli_ flowers?” Miles asked.

She narrowed her eyes, “Why do you want to know?”

“I think he might be in trouble, but I don’t know him that well,” he said. It wasn’t _exactly_ a lie.

Madam Jayanti stood, revealing her left arm stopped just before the elbow. She followed his gaze and repositioned her sleeves so the stump was hidden, but it unintentionally revealed a splotchy pink scar, wrapping around her other wrist and snaking up her arm.

“Never seen the work of the Flame Alchemist before, Major Miles?” she asked, before inviting him behind the stall for a small measure of privacy. He ducked beneath the curtain, and they were forced to stand close together under the canopy.

 “The Flame Alchemist is in Ishval, isn’t he?” she asked. He nodded.

“Good heavens,” she said, grabbing at her heart. “Have you met him?”

“I have.”

That they had left the topic of Edward behind hadn’t escaped his notice, but Miles couldn’t figure out how to turn the conversation around naturally.

“What kind of man is the Flame Alchemist?”

“He is… deeply regretful for the crimes he committed under the banner of Amestris,” Miles began slowly. “It haunts him, but he does not wallow. He wants to do what he can to rebuild the land he helped destroy. But he knows that he still has Ishvalan blood on his hands, and that it cannot be forgiven.”

“Is he a good man?” she asked.

“Can a good man do that?” he asked, gesturing to the scar on her arm.

She smiled, “I like you, Major Miles. The blond boy bought the flowers for a memorial service. He was the perfect gentleman. His Ishvalan was very good, and it wasn’t accented at all and-”

“He spoke Ishvalan?”

Her eyes widened, and she ducked her head. “Great going, Jayanti,” she muttered. “I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone, and here I go again.”

“Tell anyone what?”

Madam Jayanti raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

“Please,” Miles said. “I think he might be in trouble.”

“I just assumed you already knew because you knew who he was. I promised him I wouldn’t spread any word about the Ishvalan-speaking Amestrian,” she said, scanning him up and down. “I trust you, but I don’t know why exactly he was hiding his skills. I’d think he’d want to show off- his accent was superb- but he asked me not to tell other people about it. You’ll keep him out of trouble, won’t you?”

Miles promised that he would, and the two made to return to the hustle of the market. But before they did, she grabbed his arm. Her grip was surprisingly firm for her stature, and he could feel her fingernails digging into his skin.

“Whatever the Amestrians give, it won’t be enough. You know that, right?”

Miles nodded.

“There’s nothing in the world which can make up for what we endured,” she said. “Our homeland destroyed, our population decimated, our people forced to hide from the world. We can’t forget that. Our lives can’t be at the whim of the Amestrian military. It can’t be that way again.”

Although he’d heard many people’s opinion about Amestris since he’d arrived, something about Madam Jayanti’s wide eyes and earnestness made her words resonate.

When Miles left, he carried a beautiful bundle of Ishvalan roses. It was only right to pay her for her information, as much as she’d dismissed him. So he’d bought flowers, but Miles had no one to give them to. When his feet led him back to the inn and he saw the young boy who worked for Abra stirring an overflowing pot, he decided to deposit them with Abra.  

“Where’s Madam Abra?” he asked the boy, who gave a toothless grin at the distraction. To reach the top of the cooking vessel, he balanced on a wobbly stool, a large spoon nearly the size of his body in hand. 

“By the garden across the road,” he said, pointing towards the train station, inadvertently swinging the spoon too. Miles ducked, and the boy giggled. “She’s getting food for dinner.”

“Thanks.”

Miles could just wait for her to return, but when he glanced through the windows, he saw Ariyn Fitzgerald and Scar both sitting in the lounge. That was one conversation he wanted to avoid. Besides, he reasoned, he could get Abra to talk to Edward in Ishvalan and maybe learn a few of Edward’s secrets. For once, maybe Abra’s willingness to pry into other people’s business could be put to good use.   

He set off towards Abra’s garden not far from the inn. It was housed in a series of community plots, available for anyone who wanted to cultivate and maintain one. But it was laborious, given the difficult growing conditions of Ishval. Not many things could grow here, and those that did required careful tending.

He was lost in thought, turning over the day’s clues carefully, when Abra’s scratchy voice filtered through the gaps in the fence. Abra constantly chattered on and on, so this wasn’t unusual. And she was speaking Ishvalan. Also not unusual.

But what made Miles freeze was the quiet voice who answered her. Edward. Miles would recognize his tone anywhere, especially given how many times he’d turned over Edward’s words today.  

His first instinct was to eavesdrop, so before he could change his mind, he crouched behind the fence and pressed his ears to the small crack between the pillars of wood. It wasn’t childish; it was information gathering, he told himself. But it was pointless because his Ishvalan, though improving, was mediocre at best.

So he abandoned the sneaky approach and strode up to the gate like he hadn’t just been listening in. He reached over the post and unlocked the latch, pushing it open with force. The gate creaked, which made both Abra and Edward flinch.  

“Major Miles, what are you doing all the way out here?” Abra said, not looking up from her plants. She encircled a leafy green with her fingers and pulled at it but couldn’t summon enough strength to detach it from the earth. She turned to Edward, “Would you mind?”

“Not at all, Madam,” he said, and he yanked on the stem. It popped up immediately, and he threw it onto the adjacent wheelbarrow.

“I’m here to give you flowers,” Miles said, trying to inject warmth into his voice. “You’ve done so much for us.”

She laughed.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said, but took the flowers regardless, taking a deep whiff. “These are lovely, Major. Really stunning.”

She placed them gently into the wheelbarrow.

“But if I think you got me flowers out of the goodness of your heart, then I would have to be stupid. Do you think I’m stupid?”

Her shit-eating grin made Miles quiver. Internally, of course.

“No, I just…” he trailed off. Abra always made him feel like a schoolboy again. “May I speak to you in private?”

She turned to Edward who had gone onto the next row of vegetables, “Whatever you need to say, you can say here.”

Miles had not had a great day so far. Following around Edward Elric and trying to figure out his secrets were not his idea of fun. That his wasted time was his own fault made him seethe even more.  

“Fine,” Miles said, his patience dried up. “How’d you know Edward can speak Ishvalan and Edward, when did you learn it?”

Abra’s grin didn’t slip, but Edward’s hands dropped to his side, and the blood drained out of his face. He rose and for a moment, Miles thought he was going to attack him. His hands shook, but he still held a trowel in his hands, as though he’d completely lost awareness of his body.

“How’d- how’d you know that?” Edward asked. All signs of the cocky alchemist Miles thought he knew were gone.

“Does it matter?”

In a matter of seconds, Edward smoothed out his face, smiling faintly. Miles knew he was going to launch into some set of poorly delivered lies, and Edward hid his trembling fingers behind his back, but before he could say anything, Abra cut him off.  

“I knew he could speak Ishvalan because he talked to me in Ishvalan,” she said. And Miles wanted to scream.

But he didn’t. If he catered to his whims, he wouldn’t be a major and he would have been kicked out of the military a long time ago for attacking everyone who whispered about his shameful Ishvalan ancestry. So, instead, he just held his arms stiffly at his side.

“He helped me prepare food, and I recognized his skills,” Abra said, finally glancing up from her gardening, as though the conversation just _now_ required her attention. Edward, probably thinking he’d been saved, kneeled back into the dirt and began circling the next green sprout in the row he’d been working on.

“What?” Miles asked.

“Major Miles, you are a poor listener,” Abra said with a sigh. “But you are a good soldier, aren’t you? And a good man to claim for Ishvala. You’re doing Ishvala’s work, even if you don’t know it.”

Miles didn’t understand the conversation’s turn, but Miles’ patience had been tested by old women and their secrets all day.

“Very well,” Abra said, as she stuck her trowel into the dirt and rose slowly. “It’s because this boy is Ishvalan.”

Miles often misunderstood Abra and her propensity to sprout drivel, so what she said didn’t register. In fact, he probably would have just discounted it altogether as nonsense, if not for the rage overwhelming Edward’s face. He leaped to his feet, eyes flashing. But his chest and shoulders were trembling.

“How- how could you? I trusted you!” Edward shouted. “How could you do that to me?”

Miles was finally catching up to the current discussion.

“Wait, what? You’re saying Edward is… Ishvalan?” Miles asked, glancing at Edward’s pale skin, along with his matching set of golden eyes and hair. “That’s impossible.”

“Why is that, Major Miles? Stranger things happen every day,” she said pleasantly, like she was discussing the weather. All the while, Edward seethed. If Abra hadn’t been an old woman, he probably would have throttled her. As it was, he was still shaking, his hands formed into fists by his side.

“Is that true, Edward? That can’t be right.”

Edward bowed his head, refusing to look at Miles. Which was all the confirmation Miles needed.

“That’s impossible,” Miles repeated.

“I’m half,” Edward said finally, not lifting his head. “My mom was.”

Abra pushed Edward’s head up with her fingers, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. Both of us are Ishvalan, and we’re fine.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Miles asked gruffly, unable to mimic the same calming tone Abra used. Edward shrugged.

“Nobody asked, so it was easy not to,” he said, his voice low.

“For whatever reason, Edward doesn’t want people to know, so don’t tell anyone,” Abra said. Any glimpse of humor was gone from her gaze.  

Abra turned to Edward, “Major Miles is a good man, and won’t tell anyone, dear, don’t worry.” Abra embraced Edward and, to Miles’ surprise, Edward reciprocated. “Someone has to do what’s best for you. You can’t hold everything locked inside.” Her voice was melodic, and she rubbed circles into Edward’s back, which still was visibly tense.

“You won’t tell anyone. Swear to me,” Abra said over Edward’s shoulders. They separated, and Edward’s golden eyes finally turned to Miles for the first time since she blurted out the truth. They were red-rimmed, ironically making him look more Ishvalan than Miles had ever seen him before.

“I swear on my life,” Miles said. Abra nodded with a smile.

“Good, good,” she said, kneeling again in the garden. Edward hadn’t returned to tending to the plants, instead staring at an empty space between Miles and Abra.

“I’m almost done here, but I want to ask Priyasu about her chickpeas,” she said, stretching her arms out. “Edward, would you mind wheeling the food back to the inn? Major Miles, please accompany him.”

It wasn’t a request. Which was how Miles found himself walking side-by-side with Edward on the winding path back to the inn. He had a million questions, but he restrained himself the best he could.

“You don’t look Ishvalan,” Miles stated. The wheelbarrow bumped along the dirt road, rolling over rocks with audible cracks.

“You don’t look three-quarters Amestrian either,” Edward shot back. He’d stopped shaking, and was almost back to normal Elric behavior. Miles was relieved. 

“Touché,” Miles murmured. “How long have you known?”

“That I was part Ishvalan?” Edward asked, peering straight ahead. “My whole life. My mother was Ishvalan, remember? It’s hard not to notice the white hair and the red eyes.”

“Right,” Miles said, uncharacteristically flustered by the revelations. “Is that why you said what you did in Briggs? You said that your feelings on Ishvalans were ‘conflicted.’ When I accused you of destroying the land of my grandfather, you said nothing. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Major, if you didn’t look Ishvalan, would that change how you acted?” Edward asked, a small smirk creeping in, despite his stiffness. Miles chose to ignore the question.

“So you overcompensated then. You presented anger with Ishvalans as though it were equal to my anger at Amestrians. It’s something an Ishvalan would never say. You lied to throw me off?”

Miles did not like unsolved puzzles. It was one of the reasons he always got along so well with General Armstrong. Neither believed in pretenses.

“I don’t know,” Edward said. “I said what felt right. I hid who I was just like you hid behind your glasses. I did what I had to do.”

“Right,” Miles said, unwilling to press further on that front. Onto a different attack then. “So, who were you visiting today at the _Zikkaron_?”

Edward stopped and stared at Miles.

“You were following me?” he asked before shaking his head and resuming walking. “Damn, I’m out of practice.”

“So?” Miles asked.

“Just some friends of the family,” Edward said lightly. “They were an old family of Ishval and there aren’t any members of it left, so I cleaned off the area a bit and paid my respects.”

Miles nodded.

“I just can’t believe she told you,” Edward said, after a few minutes of silence. “I just wanted someone to practice my Ishvalan with. I hadn’t used it in such a long time, but I just told Madam Abra that I knew Ishvalan because I liked studying languages. But she said that she just… recognized my familiarity with Ishval or some old lady nonsense like that, so she just outright asks me, and I didn’t want to lie to her. And now everything is just a mess.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Miles said. “But should it be a secret? The ‘Hero of the People’; the ‘People’s Alchemist’:  an Ishvalan. You could do a lot of good, Edward.” Edward stared straight ahead, refusing to meet Miles’ eyes.

“I’m not Ishvalan anymore, not really.”

“You’re Ishvalan by blood,” Miles said. “More than even me.”

“I am,” Edward began, before shaking his head. “Was, actually. I _was_ an alchemist, which isn’t very Ishvalan. Besides, I don’t have any Ishvalan family alive, and I am happily living as an Amestrian in Amestris. I fit in Amestris. I look like an Amestrian. There’s no place for me in Ishval.” It made sense, so why did it sound like a justification? Miles narrowed his eyes as they approached the inn.

“Then why did you come back here?”

Edward ignored him, or at least didn’t have an answer he was willing to share, so he pulled the wheelbarrow through the gate and began unloading the contents.

Miles assisted and didn’t bring it up again, but all throughout the afternoon, as the next round of the peace talks inched closer, Miles couldn’t stop playing with the ideas in his mind. Edward Elric. An Ishvalan. Ishvalan enough to have been exterminated during the War. And if _he_ wasn’t Ishvalan, what was Miles? Edward at least spoke Ishvalan.

The only difference was whether they would embrace their heritage to help rebuild Ishval. 

Despite Miles’ distractions, the evening arrived promptly, and everyone gathered in the dining room to continue discussions. By everyone, it consisted of the Ishvalans: Miles, Scar, Elder Vikram, and Elder Shan, and the Amestrians: Mustang, Hawkeye, Havoc, Breda, Ariyn Fitzgerald, the Fuhrer, and the Fuhrer’s personal guard, Major Wilson. Miles now didn’t know in which category to put Edward, but he was there too. Pretending everything was normal, though his eyes never met Miles’.

For a while, conversation was civil, and Miles couldn’t stop thinking about Edward. The way he’d treated Miles back at Briggs, the way he had fooled everyone at this table, the secrets he’d been hiding his whole life. Miles couldn’t stop wondering about the question Edward had posed.

If he’d looked like Edward, like an Amestrian, who would Miles be? He might not be in Ishval, because pretending was so much easier. But Miles wasn’t one to dwell, so he shook himself to attention, and was glad he did because the conversation had turned heated.

“I don’t understand why my constituents have to pay for public works projects they’ll never reap any of the benefits of,” Ariyn Fitzgerald was arguing.

“That’s how government works, Representative. If you build a bridge near Central, only the people nearby will benefit. But everyone pays for it. It’s no different than that,” Scar said, all with more patience than Miles could fathom.

“But if you are not even going to be part of Amestris, we have no duty to Ishval. If you want independence, then fine,” Ariyn said. Her nose was upturned, as though Scar smelled like rancid garbage.  

“No duty to Ishval?” Scar asked. “Look around you. This is an Amestrian mess.”

“If the Ishvalans hadn’t started rioting over the death of a single child-” Ariyn Fitzgerald began.

“Enough!” Fuhrer Grumman shouted, slamming his fists onto the table. It made his bodyguard jump. “Representative Fitzgerald, if you do not have something meaningful to add to these talks, I would ask you to leave.”

Ariyn took a few deep breaths and pinched the ridge of her nose, “I know all of you are Team Ishval, but every decision you’ll be making will have to go through the Parliament to be ratified. If I am not satisfied with the result, you will not be seeing any of it come to fruition. Most of the representatives in Parliament will be thinking like me.”

“And what exactly would make you happy, Representative?” Fuhrer Grumman asked. He seemed the picture of calmness except for his chest, which undulated quickly.

“I understand that Ishval has undergone a serious tragedy,” she started in a sickly sweet voice. “And Amestris can help them get back on their feet, however the amount of money you are talking about is absurd, given that we can’t even agree on whether Ishval will rejoin Amestris as a state.”

“Then let’s make it simple then,” Miles said, speaking for the first time. “Ishval will rejoin Amestris. With some independence because of our unique situation, but still, it puts Ishval on the road to functioning as a part of Amestris in the future.”

“Many Ishvalan citizens would not be pleased to hear that, Major,” Elder Vikram said. He too had been mostly quiet.

“I understand that, but I don’t think we have another choice,” Miles said.

“Perhaps _you_ don’t understand the constituents _you_ are supposed to be representing,” Elder Vikram shot back. He never raised his voice, just keeping it in a monotonous drawl, but that didn’t stop his words’ bite.  

Miles frowned, “Every single day Ishvalans come up to me, and they say that they have lost their family, their friends, their homes, and their careers to the war. Their businesses and their personal fortunes, never mind their medical damage. Just today in the marketplace, I was speaking with a woman who has lost a limb and has serious scarring on her remaining arm. And she asks me to watch out for her best interests at this very table. She urges me to remember that Ishvalans cannot be subject to the whims of the Amestrian military.

“I understand exactly what I am talking about,” he said, eyes darting from Elder Vikram to Ariyn Fitzgerald. “However, a pathway to statehood will ease our current sufferings and will make Ishval an important part of Amestris, like it never was before. You must understand, Representative, that nearly every Ishvalan alive has lost loved ones and the direction of their life during the War.”

Just because Miles didn’t like political talk didn’t mean he couldn’t do it.

“Yes, that is very sad,” Ariyn Fitzgerald said, inspecting invisible dust on her fingernails. “But that doesn’t mean that it’s Amestris’ job to pay for that.”

“Isn’t it?” Breda said. “Amestris’ excessive force is what caused the mass devastation, isn’t it?”

“The military is made up of soldiers,” Ariyn Fitzgerald said, finally glancing up from her lengthy fingernails. Her voice was casual, like she was discussing what was for dinner. “Amestrian citizens did not approve of this war. It was the soldiers that caused the damage.”

“So where do you put the responsibility for the war crimes?” Elder Shan asked. “Because you cannot deny that war crimes were committed here.”

“A country cannot commit war crimes,” she said simply. “People can.”

Miles couldn’t stop his head from whipping toward Mustang and Hawkeye. In his haste, he saw that he wasn’t the only one. Havoc, Breda, and Edward had done the same. Mustang, for what it was worth, said nothing and ignored the attention.

“So you’re saying you would place the blame on the ones that followed the orders but nothing on the ones who gave the orders?” Miles asked.

“Fuhrer King Bradley is dead. As are the generals who led under him,” she said. “But a country cannot commit war crimes.”

“War crimes were committed under the name of Amestris in full support of the Amestrian government,” Elder Vikram said, as frazzled as Miles had ever seen him. His tunic hung off his shoulder, revealing more of the wounds he carried on his neck. “It is not our fault that the general population of Amestris did not get a say in the war.”

The conversation was just spinning in circles, and the argument persisted past sunset. Back and forth, back and forth.

“Would you let Ishval go, Representative?” Scar asked. “To rule independently as its own country?”

Ariyn huffed but wouldn’t give a decisive yes or no answer.

“The only way Ishval will embrace Amestris again is if we have complete faith that anything like the Ishvalan War will never happen again,” Scar said. Scar’s patience seemed everlasting; perhaps traversing the countryside and killing State Alchemists had purged Scar of most of his anger.

“How can we possibly promise what will happen two hundred years from now?” Ariyn asked.

“Ishval has never had representation in the Parliament,” the Fuhrer offered.

“What is it that you want, Fuhrer Grumman sir?” Ariyn Fitzgerald asked, twisting her body so she faced him. Miles got the feeling she was patronizing him, but the Fuhrer knew better than to rise to the bait.

“I want Amestris to thrive, Representative. Isn’t that what you want?” He raised an eyebrow towards her. “But I also want to alleviate the sufferings the Ishvalans have endured on our behalf.”

As Ariyn began to protest, the Fuhrer raised his hand to stop her.

“The war happened. Pointing fingers is pointless,” he said, which made sense to Miles, because no one would believe that it had all been orchestrated by homunculi who’d been ruling Amestris since its inception. “All we can do is move forward.”

He gestured around the room.

“That we are sitting here together is an accomplishment, and I don’t want you to think that any of us are undermining you, Representative Fitzgerald. But understand that many of us here have seen the effects of the Ishvalan War firsthand, and it isn’t as clinical to us as it is to you. Unless the Ishvalans push for war crimes against the soldiers in Ishval, I will not consider it. The severity of the soldiers’ actions were as horrific as they had been commanded to be. Any less would be treason.

“You understand as well as anyone at this table that the Amestrian government has not been an accurate representation of the population’s opinions. This needs to change, and I am hoping you will lead that change. But years ago, in not calling for this change and being complacent in the destruction, every Amestrian citizen is to blame.”

The Fuhrer stood, and everyone followed suit as a sign of respect.

“Let this resume in the morning,” he said, and he left, trailed by Major Wilson.

Miles forgot that under his eccentricities, Grumman was a clever politician, which was just the way the Fuhrer liked it.

Ariyn Fitzgerald retired moments after Fuhrer Grumman left, and when Elders Shan and Vikram left just a few minutes after that, some of the tension left the room.

“Who would ever guess that the strings of Amestris were pulled by the homunculi?” Havoc said, stretching out his arms with a yawn.  

“That doesn’t excuse what individual soldiers did,” Mustang said, and Scar rolled his eyes, which was so uncharacteristic that everyone stared at him.

“You’re such a glutton for punishment, Mustang,” Scar said. “Have you ever thought that maybe you sitting right here is doing more for Ishval than being locked up in some cell?”

Mustang’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth a few times to respond, but nothing came out. The conversation soon turned away from Ishval, and Scar left as well.

“Al and Winry are due in tomorrow, right, Edward?” Hawkeye asked.

Edward nodded, “Yeah, in the morning. I’m gonna meet them at the train station.” He’d been quiet all evening, never even glancing towards Miles. Edward fled as soon as there was a break in the conversation, which left only the Amestrian soldiers.

“After all that fun, I need some booze,” Havoc said. “Anyone else?”

They all raised their hands. Although Miles wanted to retreat from Mustang and his men, he couldn’t pass up some liquor. They ended up drinking late into the night, their heads heavy and their eyelids drooping, as they shared stories of common acquaintances they’d met through the military.

Even if it was Mustang and his men, he felt more at ease with them than he’d felt all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the all of the love, guys! 
> 
> Stay tuned for next week when we’ll dip into Winry Rockbell’s head.


	4. Winry Rockbell I

Chapter 4 Winry Rockbell I

 

Trains always excited Winry. She wasn’t like Al or Edward, who’d been on enough trains to dull their novelty. But, to Winry, trains led to adventures. Even Winry and Al’s lengthy layover in the middle of the night couldn’t stop Winry’s enthusiasm.

As they waited in East City for their Ishval-bound train, Winry babbled to Al about this and that, pretending not to notice how tired he was. Al covered his yawns and blinked back his drooping eyelids, but would hear nothing of a nap.

“How do you think it’s going, Winry?” Al asked suddenly, when Winry paused in her recollection of a gory automail accident she’d operated on just a few days ago. The whole reason Winry and Al were arriving later than expected, and not with Edward as they’d originally planned, was because of her guilt at abandoning one of her patients in his time of need. Of course, it was his own fault, because he hadn’t maintained his new automail leg properly, but that was neither here nor there.  

“Hm?”

“The Ishvalan Accords, I mean,” Al said.

“I don’t know. I think everyone wants what’s best for Ishval, so I hope it’s going well.”

The train arrived on time, which was unusual, and Winry loaded their luggage onto the train, despite Al’s protests. He was far stronger than he’d been a year ago, but there was a gauntness in his body he was struggling to lose. Muscle wasn’t building up like he’d expected, despite his sparring with Edward.

“Room for progress,” Granny always said, and Winry liked to think of it that way too.

Not many people travelled to Ishval, so they snagged their own cabin. (Much unlike their cramped ride to East City earlier, but Winry couldn’t complain.)

Alphonse smiled at her as they crossed the countryside, and it made her heart swell. At least she wasn’t crying at every little thing Alphonse did anymore. For weeks after Edward and Alphonse had returned to Resembool, she’d burst into hysterics at the slightest provocation. If Al smiled. If Al ate a piece of bread. If Al used the bathroom! Edward had mocked Winry, but she knew it was more to hide his own emotional response to Alphonse’s accomplishments than out of any real malice. 

Now, a year later, sometimes it seemed impossible that they’d ever lived without Al’s smile or his appetite or his snoring for so long. In some ways, things were finally going back to how they were supposed to be, as though he’d never been trapped in the armor at all.  

As the sun rose, the countryside slid from grassy plains and rolling hills to a sandy expanse, and Winry couldn’t stop staring at the distant horizon. It seemed like the sand stretched into the sky. This was the world that her parents had seen. She choked back tears with practiced ease. 

“It’s okay, Winry,” Al said softly. “We’ll be with you the whole time.”

It was frustrating for Winry that she’d fallen in love with the more annoying, less understanding Elric brother.

“Absolutely,” she said, turning away from the window. “You must be so excited to see Ishval.”

He nodded vigorously, “I was always so jealous that Edward remembered it, and I didn’t. This is going to be amazing for all of us!”

Winry laughed, and as the train lurched to a halt, she gathered their things. Alphonse insisted on carrying at least one bag, so she gave him the pies she’d made yesterday. She couldn’t go anywhere empty-handed, of course. It was impolite, not that the Elrics understood that.

They exited the train, and Winry spotted Edward first.

“Edward!” she shouted, ignoring the disgruntled looks from the passengers around her. He turned around and smiled which made her knees go all wobbly. His smile stretched across his face, narrowing his eyes and displaying all his teeth. Winry and Al both ran to embrace him at once, as though they’d been parted for years, rather than just a few days.

“How was the trip?” Edward asked, reaching down for the luggage. Packing light was a necessity, but the older Winry got, the more she realized that she liked having her own things with her when she traveled.

“What’s in this? It’s so heavy,” Edward said, nearly falling over as he lugged the suitcase upright.

Winry laughed, “What? Are you a little weakling now?”

“WHO ARE YOU CALLING LITTLE?”

The taunts came as naturally to them as the sun rising every morning. It was a piece of the familiar in a faraway place.

“Um, Winry,” Al said, before it could escalate further. “It might have been nice to warn him that you have some of your tools in there.”

Edward’s jaw dropped.

“Why’d you bring your tools, you automail freak? My leg is perfectly fine!” He demonstrated by kicking out his leg a few times.

“It’s not for you, bonehead,” she said, flicking his forehead with her fingers. “I just thought that maybe I could help out if anyone needed some automail assistance here.”

Edward’s face softened, and Winry fought to stay mad, but she just couldn’t.  

“Come on, let’s go,” Edward said, pointing to a collection of buildings in the distance that must be Kedesh. All of the other passengers had vanished while they’d been squabbling.

But before they had the chance to even pick up their bags, a thunderous sound struck Winry’s senses.

A wave of sand rushed passed. Before she could do anything, Edward pushed her and Al to the ground, holding himself over them.

“ELRICS!” a deep voice bellowed.

The dusty sand cleared, revealing a tall man on the edge of the train platform. He wore sunglasses and a black handkerchief over his mouth and nose, revealing just a fragment of skin.

“Winry, go,” Edward said, and she fled off of the platform, her escape covered by Edward and Alphonse, who’d risen with their characteristic swagger. Winry jumped down the stairs and hid behind the unmanned ticketing kiosk. 

“I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’re gonna pay for that!” Edward shouted.

But Winry didn’t know how much Edward could do without his alchemy.   

 “I think you’re going to pay, _Z’hoom_ ,” the man jeered. He lifted his gloved hands to the sky, clapped them together, and slammed his hands down onto the platform. Winry ducked behind the kiosk just in time, before another wave of sand billowed through the air. It stung her exposed arms as it hurled past, and for a moment, it was all she could do to cover her eyes and wait. By the time the sand cleared, she snuck a peak back and saw Edward and Alphonse unharmed, attacking the masked man.

Alphonse sent a spear created from the train platform’s wreckage towards the man, but he easily leaped around it. Edward, on the other hand, just ran forward with his fists while the man was distracted.

But the man kept pace easily, dodging and creating new obstacles to throw at the boys. Alphonse clapped, and a huge fist emerged from the debris and punched the man right in the stomach. But despite the hit, the man rose again, barely phased.

The man clapped, and this time Edward was thrown from the ruins into the sand.

Winry held in a sob, wishing she could do something- anything- to help. She hated this. She hated violence. She hated feeling useless. She hated being unable to defend herself and the people she loved.

“Your skills have always healed the body, not harmed it,” Granny had said, when Winry had begged her to take self-defense classes, back when Edward first became a state alchemist. And although Winry’d hated Granny’s refusal, she hadn’t argued. That she’d never felt weaker than when Winry had nearly killed Scar was all the confirmation she’d needed that she wasn’t that kind of person.

There were different types of weakness. And different types of strength.

Not that it made her feel any better, as she saw Edward struggling to get back on his feet and Alphonse tiring against the attacker. Al was a good alchemist, but he was still fragile.

The battle continued. Alphonse jumped over the train tracks and the masked assailant followed, clapping against the sand. Which sent another wave of sand towards Alphonse, pushing him to his knees. Winry dug her fingernails into her palms, as she watched the man approach Alphonse, who was struggling to get up.

Shots rang out.

Winry whipped her head around, and she swore she’d never been so pleased to see anyone before.

Riza Hawkeye stood, hair whipping in the wind, stone-faced, pointing a pair of guns at the attacker.

“Don’t get too comfortable in Ishval, Elrics. I’ll be waiting for the perfect time to strike!” he shouted, before exploding a sand dune, blinding everyone for a minute. By the time it had cleared, he was gone. Only a ruined train platform and two injured boys in his wake.

“Edward! Alphonse!” Riza shouted, running into the collapsed platform, sheltering her face with her sleeve. “Are you all right?”

Edward coughed. “Just great.”

Alphonse rushed over and helped Edward up, and both beamed at Riza.

“Thanks, Captain,” Alphonse said, and Winry ran out from her cover, though the kiosk had been blown over in the chaos.  

“Are you okay?”

It was clear they weren’t. Edward was favoring his real leg, and blood stained his face, splotching from his temple to his neck. Alphonse sported a black eye and shallow scrapes from his altercation but looked like he’d fared slightly better than Edward had. At least his wounds seemed more superficial.

“Let’s get you into town. Do you need to see a doctor?” Riza asked.

They both shook their heads, and as they walked into town, they quickly filled Riza in on what had happened.

“That is alarming,” she said, before offering Edward help for the third time. He wasn’t limping exactly, but his gait wasn’t normal, as he swung his automail leg out too widely each step.

“’m fine,” he muttered. “Just sore.”

By the time they reached the town, Edward’s breaths were quick and shallow. Riza wouldn’t take any more refusals and made him lean on her. He complained constantly but did so nevertheless.

Despite the town’s foreign appearance, Winry barely noticed it; her attention entirely on Edward. Riza led them to their inn, and when they walked in, covered in the Elric’s blood, there was a moment of silence. Winry could feel all of their eyes on them. And then they all began talking at once.

Riza held up her palm, and everyone quieted. She stepped away from Edward, who wobbled a bit but remained standing, and succinctly filled them in on the highlights of the attack.

“They mentioned you by name?” Miles said.

“Yes,” Edward said. Miles frowned, rubbing his temples, but didn’t say anything else.  

“It could be anyone,” Riza said.

“Amestrian or Ishvalan,” Mustang agreed.

“He hid his appearance well. Probably intentionally,” Edward said. “Maybe just trying to ruin the Accords?”

“It could be dangerous for you here, Edward,” Riza said.

“It’s fine! I can handle my-” he started.

It was at this point a few things happened.

First, Edward took a step forward.

Second, a pop emitted from Edward’s leg, before third, it gave way entirely, sending Edward face-first into the closest object nearby.

Which was Winry.

So, fourth, Winry caught him on instinct but the force of his fall was too strong for her, so she fell back onto the floor.

It happened both in slow motion and in a whirlwind. Which ended with Edward suddenly on top of her. It didn’t matter that they were in front of tons of people, which included Edward’s ex-commanding officer or even Edward’s brother. She could feel the warmth of his body pressed against hers, and she couldn’t stop the blush which rushed to her cheeks, as Edward’s face stopped mere inches above hers.

Winry heard a few people laugh, which intensified the blushing. It took a few moments before Edward processed the fall, flushed, and rolled off of her. But he couldn’t stand well, so Alphonse hoisted him up, and Edward found his footing on his one real leg.

Winry remained on the ground for another moment, paralyzed by the sensation of Edward’s body on top of hers.

“Here,” Riza said, lending out her hand. Winry took it and became upright again. She could feel her face still blushing, and Riza’s knowing smile made it a hundred times worse. She just hoped it was dark enough that no one else noticed.

She forced herself to find her familiar anger at Edward’s negligence in her beautiful automail.

“YOU RUINED IT!” she shouted. “My automail. My poor automail.”

“Your poor automail? What about me? This is my leg! I’m the one who just got attacked for no reason!” he yelled back.

“Aren’t you glad I brought my tools with me? _I just know you_. You don’t leave Resembool for three days and you wreck all of my work!” They were glaring at each other, and Winry was thankful for the familiar footing.

Winry, Al, and Edward remained in the lounge, but everyone else returned to the dining room, probably to do something important, but Winry only paid mind to Edward’s leg, as she began inspecting the damage inflicted.

Edward and Alphonse bounced ideas back and forth about their attacker, but she was only vaguely aware of the conversation. She’d come to the unfortunate conclusion that the easiest way to fix Edward’s leg would be to detach it, so she could repair it without the inconvenience of the rest of his body in the way.

Edward scowled but didn’t complain as she eased his leg off.

“You’ll have it back by the end of today… I hope,” Winry said, studying his leg from every angle. She turned it over and found a few new parts to tweak, while his leg was already off. Might as well.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a replacement to give you for the moment,” she said, unwrapping the equipment she’d packed.

“That’s fine,” Edward said with a shrug.

But it wasn’t fine.

At least not for Winry, because with Edward’s limited mobility, he decided to sit next to her and kept asking her how long it would take. Every few seconds. And he was poking her. Like she hated. She wanted to throttle him, but she didn’t.

Instead, she retreated to her room, leaving Alphonse with a stir-crazy Edward. She felt a little bad for abandoning Alphonse, but as she left, she spotted Edward hopping from one chair to another and Alphonse sighing. So she didn’t feel _that_ bad.

Playing with automail was her favorite part of the job. Sure, there were other important moments, like the surgeries and the fittings and the rehabilitation, but nothing made her happier than tinkering with her automail. She’d been able to incorporate some of the Northern automail techniques into Edward’s leg, but she was still hoping to get it lighter, to truly feel like a real leg one day.

But this wasn’t the time for that. She’d get inside it, fix the damage, and make a few tweaks. Nothing more elaborate than that, so Edward would be back on his feet as soon as possible.  

She measured out the length of the leg, and realized that she might as well adjust it to his new height, which was slightly taller than he’d been during his last automail maintenance.

So she returned downstairs again. By this point, Edward had used up most of his energy, so he sat on the bar beside Alphonse, swinging his one leg as high as it could go. She got to work measuring his height as efficiently as possible, before Edward got antsy again.  

It was then that the dining room door flung open, sending Amestrians and Ishvalans alike pouring into the lounge. They were probably taking a break from their serious negotiations, and they didn’t seem too pleased.

“Getting yourself all patched up?” Havoc asked, leaning over the couch. His cane was nowhere to be found, which was exactly how Riza always complained about him in their phone calls. Havoc walked with an obvious limp, or at least it was obvious to an automail mechanic.

Winry glanced from Havoc to the others and was surprised to see pity on many of their faces, as they couldn’t tear their eyes from Edward sans leg. She suddenly realized that many of the people here had never seen him without his leg before. Although his arm had often been damaged during his State Alchemist days, his leg rarely underwent such trauma. Without his leg, Edward lacked basic mobility and looked years younger. They saw tragedy in Edward, a boy not out of his teens chained forever to a mechanical leg.

It frustrated the hell out of Winry.

Automail surgery was available and viable to some people but not all people. But just because you didn’t have automail didn’t mean a loss of a limb was the end of the world! Winry saw people without limbs all the time, and it didn’t even occur to her to pity them. Not when she saw what they could do when they put their minds to it.

“Winry has to adjust it for my new height,” Edward announced proudly.

“What’s a few inches to a shrimp?” Havoc said, and Edward leaped up onto his foot. Winry wasn’t sure what he would have done, but Alphonse held him back.

“Let me go!” Edward said, struggling against Alphonse’s embrace.

 “Wow, arguments in here. Arguments in there. Don’t people just get along anymore,” Breda said with a toothy grin.

“All right, Edward,” she said, noting the new measurements. “I’ll be done soon.” She looked out the window at the setting sun.

“It’ll have to be tomorrow then. I won’t have enough light to attach it tonight. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it, Winry,” he said, stretching his arms up. “I’ll just eavesdrop on them for entertainment.” He pointed at the Amestrians and Ishvalans, who were beginning to file back into the dining room.

It was strange (but nice) seeing their familiar faces again. She didn’t miss the days when Edward and Alphonse disappeared for months without a word, but she was thankful for the new people she’d had the chance to meet because of their journey. She made a mental note to visit Gracia and Elicia soon.

Winry returned upstairs and continued refining his leg. Soon she only had the candlelight to work with, but it was bright enough to apply the finishing touches. She lifted the leg, which was noticeably lighter than before. Honestly, sometimes she even impressed herself. She couldn’t wait to install it onto Edward.

There was nothing like that magical moment, when someone took their first steps with a new limb that she had created. It must be like being a doctor and seeing your patients recover. It reminded her of her parents.  

“Almost done, gearhead?” Edward asked from the doorway.

“How’d you get up the stairs?”

“I hopped.”

“No,” Alphonse said from behind him, red-faced. “I carried him.”

“Al, you’re still weak, why’d you do it?”

“He wouldn’t let anyone else!” Al said, letting Edward lean on him as he lurched into the room. “You worked through dinner, so Madam Abra said that she’d saved something for you.”

Winry hadn’t even realized it was that late, too involved in her work to notice hunger pangs.  

“I’m all finished,” Winry said, stretching her arms and legs out, stiff from sitting for so long. “I’ll grab a bite to eat then.”

“I’ll come down with you,” Edward said, attempting to get off of the bed with limited success.

“No!” Al and Winry shouted.

“Not to worry,” Winry said. “I’ll be back soon.” She left Edward’s leg in a place of honor on the desk with strict instruction not to touch it, _Edward_.

She found the kitchen and the food without a problem, though the whole first floor was abandoned. It must have been even later than she’d thought, but it wasn’t unusual for her to lose track of time while she tinkered. Even Mr. Garfiel had taken her to task on that before, arguing she needed to eat and sleep like normal humans. Which she did. Just as soon as she finished.

Winry grabbed the food and settled on a bar stool, but before she could even take a bite, she heard footsteps. She jumped at the broad figure, cloaked in shadows, but wasn’t sure how to react when he stepped forward and she could see it was Scar.

“I apologize, Miss Rockbell,” he said, giving her a quick bow. “I’ll just return to my lodgings.”

Winry hated that her mouth worked faster than her brain.

“No! I don’t mind. You can sit here too,” she said, and she saw he was carrying a book. He was here to read. No awkwardness needed. It’ll be easy. Just casually sitting in the same room as your parents’ murderer.  

She nibbled on the food without tasting it, unable to keep her eyes off of Scar. But he didn’t open the book either, his eyes focused on his lap.  

“What’s your name now?” she asked.

“I’m called Grand Cleric Heridas,” he said. His attention was so fixated on her, he let his book slip from his fingers and crash onto the floor. He jumped, picked up the book, and deposited it onto the nearest side table.

“Was that your name from before?” she asked, food abandoned. She twisted herself around so she faced him, and was glad to see the glimpse of surprise in his eyes.

“No, that man is dead,” he said. His hands were folded, displaying his bulging biceps crisscrossed with alchemic tattoos.

“Is it that simple?” she asked, unable to stop herself. “You change your name and you become a different person? You’re not the man you were born as, but you’re also not the man who killed my parents. You’re a third man?”

Scar dipped his head low. “I will live with their deaths on my hands for the rest of my life, Miss Rockbell. It’s more… symbolic.”

“How’d you get the name Heridas then? Did you give it to yourself?”

Scar raised one side of his mouth upward, like he was attempting to smile, “No, my master gave it to me.”

“Oh,” she said.

She went back to her food, but when she looked back at Scar (or Grand Cleric Heridas), his book lay untouched and his red eyes stared back.

“What?”

“Nothing, Miss Rockbell. You just reminded me of someone I knew a long time ago,” he said, and his face distorted into something she couldn’t recognize.

“Who was it?”

“My younger sister,” he said, and his eyes unfocussed, like he was staring _beyond_ Winry, privy to something unseen.

“What happened to her?”

“She died,” he said, eyes focusing back to Winry. “Not from the War, just a summer sickness a long time ago.”

“How old was she?” Winry asked.

“Eight,” he said. “Six years younger than me.”

Scar looked away, and somehow, Winry couldn’t stop herself from rising from her stool and sitting down next to him.

“What about me reminds you of her?” she asked, wanting to comfort him, but she was unsure how it would be received.  

“She was very kind, but she didn’t know it,” he said, his usually gruff voice mellowed and soft. “It was just second nature to her. Even when I was so angry, even then. But she wasn’t. Even when she got sick, and she had to spend her last weeks in bed, she would get excited every time I brought her flowers, as though I had brought her the world. She was optimistic. She made everyone around her better for having existed.”

His eyes glazed over, and Winry couldn’t resist: she patted his shoulder gently. He jumped, but didn’t bat away her hand.

“It never gets easier, does it?” she asked. “Losing people you love. They say that the pain goes away, but it doesn’t. Not ever. You just get used to it, so you can get anything done.”

“You are very wise, Miss Rockbell,” he said, and Winry removed her hand from his shoulder.

“Please, call me Winry,” she said.

Scar seemed taken aback, “Miss Rockbell, in Ishval, names hold a lot of meaning. Calling you by your name is-”

“I know,” Winry said. “But I’d like you to use it anyway.”

“Winry,” he whispered. Her name sounded differently on his lips than anyone else’s. His voice was deep, but he said her name reverently.

Winry smiled, and she knew that this was what her parents would have wanted. Seeing him didn’t make her feel angry anymore. It just made her sad. Scar- Heridas- was a good man a very long time ago, and the forces that made him Scar could not be perpetuated.

“Good night, Heridas,” she said, as she cleared her plate and bounded back upstairs, her heart lighter than before.

“Good night, Winry,” she heard whispered.

Maybe this trip to Ishval really was a good idea.

She didn’t mention Scar to Edward or Alphonse, though once she returned to the room, the three talked late in the night like old times. Edward also sheepishly told them that Major Miles now knew about their Ishvalan mother. Edward faced some good-natured ribbing from Alphonse on Edward’s supposed sneakiness, but it didn’t seem like Alphonse really minded.

“Seriously, Al, I’m sorry,” Edward said. “I messed up. I should have-”

Alphonse shoved Edward and called him an idiot, because Al really didn’t care. And all was well in the Elric family again. Watching the two of them act like kids made her feel like a kid too. Winry knew that there wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle with these two boys at her side.

However, she was feeling less generous when Edward began prodding her as soon as the sun had risen.

“Winry,” he whispered, poking her shoulder. “Winry. Winry. Winry.”

“WHAT?”

He grinned.

“You can attach my leg now!” he said, pointing at his stump, ignoring the fact that they had gone to sleep just a few hours before.

Winry wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy, so she found herself lugging all of her tools back downstairs, so they could attach it with the most natural light. Madam Abra uncovered all of the windows, and sunlight flooded into the lounge.

“Do you need any help?” Riza asked. Riza was already awake and reading a newspaper, looking like it was the middle of the afternoon and not just past dawn.

“No, Al and I should have it all covered,” Winry said, wiping a few oil stains from her hands onto the nearest surface (her pants). 

“I’ll get out of your way then,” Riza said, making to rise, but Edward shook his head.

“No need, it’ll be over soon anyway,” he said, scanning Winry’s tools, which were nearly assembled in the order she liked. She’d done this so many times for him it was almost natural, but that didn’t mean it was any less painful or that it was any easier seeing him in pain.

Winry held the leg up to his ports, and Alphonse stood over her, ready to hold down his leg.

“Ready? Al? Edward?”

“Ready,” Al said.

“Ready,” Edward said, after a moment’s hesitation. He gripped the edge of the chair, so his knuckles bled white. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

It was over quickly, but not quick enough. She could hear his breaths quicken as the automail reconnected to the nerve endings.  

Winry gave a cursory check that everything was in working order, but it was mostly just for show. She knew her work was perfect.

“All set!”

“Yes!” Edward said, leaping to his feet. “Finally.”

“If you hadn’t broken it-” Winry said.

“Not my fault!”

Riza cleared her throat, and Winry blushed, “Sorry, Riza.”

Edward and Alphonse retreated to their room to gather their things for their outing, but Winry stayed in the lounge cleaning up her tools.

“Did you ever think about not being an automail mechanic?” Riza asked suddenly. She stood by the window, staring out at the street, which was beginning to fill with merchants. Winry was looking forward to seeing Ishval, after spending all day yesterday cooped up inside repairing Ed’s automail.

“Not really,” Winry said cleaning her wrench with special attention. “It’s in my family, and it was fun.”

Riza laughed.

“How’s everything here?” Winry asked.

“It comes and goes,” she said, and Winry was always thankful for her honesty, even though Winry was much younger. “Sometimes it seems we’re making real progress, but other times…” She trailed off. Winry didn’t know what she could offer beyond stale platitudes.

“The wounds from our past don’t just disappear because we acknowledge them,” Riza said finally.                                                                                                  

“But they can’t begin to heal unless they’re acknowledged,” Winry said, thinking back to last night’s conversation with Scar.

“Ready?” Edward asked, and Winry finished cleaning up quickly, so finally, she could explore Kedesh.  

And it was a world like she’d never seen. The buildings were made of white stones, which reminded her of marble, the way they twinkled under the sun. The streets were barely wide enough for a car to fit through, and it felt like she’d gone back in time. To an Ishval that used to exist, as though they had replicated the old city that had once stood here, rather than create a new one. In many ways Kedesh was a dilapidated town trying to emulate a great city. It was both sad and hopeful.

“Let’s get flowers,” Edward said, pointing further into Kedesh.  

“Wait!”

The three turned around and saw Major Miles rushing after them.

“Major?” Alphonse asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go off on your own,” he said with a frown. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m an alchemist,” Alphonse said. He never argued with the same petulance Edward did, but his indignation often resulted in the same effect.

“You just had an alchemist attack you specifically, and he knew your names,” Miles said, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “You were barely able to hold him off!”

“I’m sure we’ll do better next time, right, Al?” Edward said, but Miles didn’t laugh.

“You don’t think it’s because,” Miles leaned in close and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Because of your Ishvalan heritage?”

“Nah,” Edward said. “How could anyone know that?”

Miles didn’t appreciate getting brushed off, so he huffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not letting you go,” he said. “Not when I know what kind of trouble you three cause.”

“Well, we’re going, so let’s see what happens,” Edward said, marching off. Alphonse followed behind a moment later, but Winry didn’t know if she should follow.

“You understand how dangerous this is, Miss Rockbell,” he said, and despite how much it felt like a betrayal, she nodded.

“But, if you know their heritage, then don’t you understand that this is important to them? To me?” Winry asked.

Miles narrowed his eyes and leaned into Winry, “How about this? I accompany you on your little excursion, and everyone wins. Except me.”

“Sure,” she said. “If they go for that. And if we can even find them.”

The crowds milled around them, but the Elric brothers hadn’t gone far without her. They leaned against the adjacent wall of a jewelry stand, waiting for Winry to ditch Miles. When he walked up with her, their faces sunk.

“Major Miles will come with us. He will stay at a respectable distance at all times. Is that acceptable to everyone?” Winry asked, looking from Miles’ to Edward’s faces. Both gave curt nods.

“Let’s go,” Edward said, and they threw themselves back into the throng. It would have been easy to lose Miles in the crowd, but no one made mention of it, so they continued through the market.

And what a market it was. It sold everything you could imagine, from repaired radios to radishes and everything in between. Although Winry wasn’t usually one for shopping, she couldn’t tear her eyes from the earrings. Some were studs like what she usually wore, but others were larger than her entire ear! The vibrant colors of the accessories contrasted against the white walls, adding pops of beauty.

“We’ll come back later,” Edward murmured into her ear.

Miles wasn’t directly behind them, but as soon as they stopped at the flower stand, he quickly caught up. He peered awkwardly from the neighboring stall, but Winry waved him over. No harm in him standing there while they bought flowers.

Edward did the purchasing, all in Ishvalan. Watching Edward’s mouth produce the foreign tongue was invigorating to Winry. It was a beautiful language, and when Edward spoke it, his tone was gentler than when he spoke Amestrian. Although the brothers would occasionally practice it at home, it reminded her most fervently of the week leading up to her parents’ departure.

Mrs. Elric would come over daily, often bearing sweets for Winry, teaching her parents all of the Ishvalan culture and language she could squeeze into their crash course before they left for Ishval. Watching her parents struggle to replicate the smooth clarity of Mrs. Elric had been burned into her mind as the last thing she could remember her parents ever doing.

Alphonse hung onto every word of the conversation, but according to Alphonse, his Ishvalan wasn’t as good. At one point, he nodded and contributed as well. His Ishvalan was slower and softer, but it still sounded beautiful to Winry’s ears.

When the woman leaned over to hand the flowers off, Winry saw the rounded edge just below the woman’s elbow. Winry yearned to ask about whether she’d considered automail or other alternatives, but their transaction was complete. Winry made a note to come back later, but their next destination was the more immediate concern.  

The four of them walked together, but with Edward leading and Miles dawdling behind. As Winry walked in time with Alphonse, she noticed sweat dotting his forehead.

“Are you all right? Tired?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“No,” he said, but Winry saw his feet dragging through the sand. So she let his lie pass.

They approached a stone gate, and Edward told them to cover their heads. She draped her scarf over her hair without understanding why, though Miles ignored the instruction.

“You’re back at the _Zikkaron_ ,” Miles said.

“You’re very observant,” Edward said.

“Why?”

Edward didn’t answer.  

“Why are you covering your head?” Miles asked.

“It’s just respectful,” Edward said with a shrug. “You don’t have to. What do I care?”

Miles didn’t cover his head, but the other three had. They slipped through the narrow opening of the stone gate one at a time, taking care that no one saw.

“You can wait here,” Edward said. “We’ll be back soon.”

“I won’t be able to see you,” Miles said. “It defeats the purpose of me joining you in the first place.”

Perhaps it was the environment, but Edward didn’t argue, though he insisted that Miles waited at the end of the row.

“Are you sure I should be here?” Winry asked, once they’d left Miles. The statues were often larger than she was, and they hung over huge tablets and engravings. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on edge, and she felt as though she were trespassing onto something sacred.

“Absolutely!” Edward said. “You’re family too.”

And then Edward stopped. Alphonse and Winry nearly walked into him, but at the sight, Alphonse let out a soft sob. The stone slab was thicker than her arm, but the arched top lessened its intimidating shadow. The word, **_Vaidya,_** was deep-set into the stone in Amestrian, as well as an Ishvalan word above it. Likely the same and triple the size. Edward and Alphonse carefully arranged the flowers, putting them atop decaying ones already left there.

“Sorry I didn’t wait for you, Al,” Edward whispered.

“It’s ok,” Al said, eyes wide, unable to take them off of the engraving. He put his hand directly on it, before following the indentation of the letters, first in Ishvalan and then Amestrian.

“How do I show my respect?” Winry asked, wishing she wasn’t so ignorant of Ishvalan customs.

“I’ll lead you,” Edward said, stepping back.

“First three steps forward, two steps back, one step forward, then a bow. Then the same but in reverse.”

He demonstrated, and Alphonse and Winry repeated it. Then they kneeled in front of the stones. The sand was firm here, like dirt, after it had been tread so many times over many years.

“I don’t remember Ishval at all,” Alphonse said sadly.

“It’s okay,” Edward said. “You were so little when we left. But every year on _Yom Hazikkaron_ , we would talk about someday being able to come back here. To our family’s shrine.” He gestured to it. “And here we are.”

He turned to Winry, “You see Kedesh was lost to the Amestrians early in the war, so I could never come here to see this place in person. Our family would hope and pray, but it was under Amestrian control. And yet… here we are.”

“So only some families are here?” Winry asked, and Edward nodded.

“Only the really old ones. It’s like a sign of longevity or whatever. It means that the family that we came from, _Vaidya_ , was really respected. It used to be more of a status thing, but our family never cared much about that,” he said. He stared at the sky, leaning back against the sand.

“But your last name is Elric?” Winry asked.

“Not really,” Edward said. “It is now, but it wasn’t then. Mom changed it because an Ishvalan last name could be dangerous. So Elric it is.”

“This is amazing,” Alphonse said. “Sitting here for real.” He put his hand down onto the hardened sand. “Our family has sat here, in this spot, mourning relatives lost for hundreds of years.”

“I don’t think they ever had as many to mourn,” Edward said with a cold smile.

“You didn’t… you didn’t find any evidence of any other family members, did you? You know, making it through the war?” Alphonse asked hesitantly. Edward tore his eyes away from the cloudless sky, and frowned.  

“No, I didn’t. I don’t think anyone else survived,” he said. “No one had cleaned the monument, and you’d think this would be the first stop in Ishval. It doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone, but… I wouldn’t count on it, Al. I think we’re all that’s left.” He shook his head with a smile. “Our grand-uncle must be cursing us from the world beyond.”

Winry had a million questions, and it wasn’t often that Edward was so open about his Ishvalan past, but she squelched the urge. This wasn’t the time or the place for it.  

Although she’d never liked graveyards, impersonal unlike the true feeling of grief, there was something humbling about this place. Each display was a testament to different family’s sensibilities and history. These weren’t just non-descript plaques, but each had its own character. Some of them seemed like they hadn’t been cleaned in decades, some were cracked, while others had clearly made additions, visible in slightly mismatching stone coloring. 

“What did the engraving say underneath our name, Brother?” Alphonse asked, as they filed out of the row. Miles stood still as a statue in the distance.

“That’s our family’s motto,” he said. “I’m not as good at reading Ishvalan, but it means something like,

_While I have breath, I have hope. When I have lost all breath, I have Ishvala._

It makes more sense in Ishvalan I think.”

Once Miles got in listening distance, they fell into silence, and they walked back to the inn quietly, punctuated with the rustling of the sand from their steps.

“Is the Fuhrer leaving today?” Edward asked, as they strolled through the inn’s gate.

“Not until we make some progress,” Miles said. “It doesn’t matter what we tell him about the dangers. He’s persistent, if nothing else.”

“And there hasn’t been any progress?” Winry asked.

“Some,” Miles said but didn’t elaborate.  

The Ishvalan Accords had already resumed when they arrived back at the inn, so Miles immediately strode to the back room. But he held the door open for Edward, which let a deep voice filter through to the entrance. Edward shot a questioning glance to Winry, but she encouraged him to go, and suddenly, it was just her and Al again.

“Edward says it doesn’t matter if he’s there,” Al said, plopping down onto the nearest couch and closing his eyes for a moment. He’d done a poor job of hiding his exhaustion, but that he made it back was an accomplishment. “He doesn’t do anything but get mad. But he doesn’t feel like he can yell ‘cause he doesn’t want to make things worse.”

“How… restrained,” Winry said, and though not yelling wasn’t an accomplishment for most people, it certainly was one for Edward.

Abra peeked her head into the lounge, and sensing their boredom, invited them into the kitchen to assist her with cooking.

Although Al wouldn’t admit his exhaustion, Winry refused to let him do anything but sit still, promptly informing Madam Abra that he was weak from a medical condition.  

 “So you’re half-Ishvalan too?” she asked him, before following up with something in Ishvalan. Al answered in a few broken phrases, which made Abra laugh.

“If you keep practicing, you’ll get better,” she said, peeling a potato with a sharp-looking blade like it was no more dangerous than a butter knife. “I know these things. I remember when I was growing up, we had to learn Amestrian in school, but we didn’t know anyone who spoke it, so we were all awful at it. But when you need it, you learn it.”

She handed off the potatoes for Winry to chop, as she stirred a giant pot of soup.

“What do you think of Ishval then?” she asked, opening the conversation up to Winry as well.

“It’s amazing! It’s so different, but it’s like a whole new world to discover.” She got too excited and almost sliced her finger. “Oops.”

“It’s strange,” Al said, rocking back and forth on the box he sat on. “It’s different, but it’s also so familiar. Like home. Is that funny to say? I don’t even remember Ishval much.”

“Home is much more than just memories,” Madam Abra said. “It’s much deeper than that. It’s somehow in our blood. No, no, dear, slice them thinner, like this.”

She showed Winry an easier way to use the knife, and she was thankful, as the chopping suddenly became much faster.

“Edward told me you don’t have any family left,” Abra said conversationally to Alphonse, which made Al flinch. “It’s all right. Lots of people here don’t… not anymore.”

“What happened to your family?” Winry asked. “Oops! I’m sorry that was really personal! Never mind.”

Abra laughed, and she gave more vegetables to Winry, “That’s all right. When Ishvalans meet each other for the first time, do you know what the first thing they exchange is?”

“Their names?” Alphonse asked.

“Heavens, no,” Abra said. “Their stories.” Winry saw her blank expression mirrored on Alphonse.

“How they survived the war. Where they’re from. How they came back here. It’s all tied together. It’s practically like ‘how are you’ for Ishvalans. It’s… it’s how we make sense of the world. So don’t get offended if someone asks you for your story, and let me give you a little piece of mine.”

Abra paused, seemingly looking for the right place to begin.

“I don’t have any family left,” she said. “They all passed in the war. I’m from right here, in Kedesh. My family’s lived here for ages, and I got married here. A beautiful temple on the other side of town. Of course, they haven’t rebuilt that yet. They only have a temporary temple until they have funding for the grandeur a real temple requires. It was a beautiful building with a golden dome and these huge columns which had carvings of…” Abra laughed. “I’m just babbling, aren’t I?”

“No, no,” Alphonse said. “I’d love to hear anything you’ll tell us.”

And so they did.

She spoke of her late husband, who was a doctor and had died early in the War, as well as of her two sons, who were soldiers from the Ishvalan forces.

“One married,” she said, eyes glazing over as she reminisced. “A beautiful girl. You know, beautiful on the inside as well as out. When he died on the front, she was pregnant. But it was hard getting to a doctor then, and she passed in childbirth, as did the baby.”

Abra stopped and stared at nothing, before twisting back toward her cooking.

“This was many years ago,” she said with a sad smile, which made her wrinkles bunch around her forehead. “But I had to return, of course, and so here I am.”

She told of how she’d lived in the Ishvalan slums of West City, and that she was one of the first Ishvalans back to Kedesh.

“You can’t imagine it,” she said. “I know that Kedesh is so far from what it was, and that there’s still so much to be done, but when I arrived, it was so much worse. Progress keeps us moving forward.”

The conversation turned to Winry’s and Al’s lives, and though they edited it (homunculi and philosopher’s stones didn’t go over well with the general population), they enjoyed talking with her very much.

“Both of you have lost so much too,” she said. “And at such a young age.” She tutted. “No use in dwelling though.”

Her eyes softened, “It’s good you’re here. You can’t ignore your pasts, as much as your brother seems to want to.”

“Brother is… complicated,” Al said, leaning back against the wall. “When he talks about our lives in Ishval, he gets so nostalgic, but it’s like he doesn’t want it like that ever again.”

“It can’t be like it was, dear,” Abra said. “Trying to emulate the past is a rabbit hole you shouldn’t pursue. All you can do is live with what you have. I would have never imagined living in the slums of Amestris when I was still living with my late husband, but then again, I would have never imagined being back here while I was living in the Amestrian slums.”

“You’ve lived a very rich life,” Winry said, and Abra laughed.

“That’s just another way to call me old.” And Winry laughed too.

This was why Winry had come to Ishval. She didn’t just want to accompany Edward and Al to their homeland, though that would have been reason enough. She needed to make sense of her own place in Ishval. This was made even clearer when Abra, Alphonse, and Winry sat down for dinner with all of the other delegates.

“You are the Doctors Rockbells’ daughter?” an elderly woman asked her. “I am Elder Shan.”

She bowed as deeply as she was able with her cane, but when she wobbled as she straightened, Winry kept her on balance.

“I would not be alive if not for your parents,” she said, and Winry noticed the rest of the table eavesdropping. “I am so thankful for their work, and for their sacrifice.”

Winry didn’t know what to say to that. Except that tears leaked out of her eyes against her consent and everybody was staring at her crying, but she couldn’t stop. Abra grabbed her hands and held them tightly.

“You will always be welcome here in Ishval, Miss Rockbell,” Elder Shan said.

“Thank you,” Winry said. “That means a lot to me. I’ve always known my parent’s work was important, but it feels so much realer when I see it in person. It makes me look up to them even more.”

She didn’t want to see Heridas’ reaction, but her eyes met his anyway. His plate was untouched, and Winry’s chest felt tight. She nodded to him, and he returned it.

The rest of the evening was much less eventful. The most significant moment came after Ariyn Fitzgerald (who everyone seemed to really hate but Winry hadn’t heard a peep from) retired to her chambers, and Fuhrer Grumman (Riza’s grandfather! Who’d have thought?) admitted he was caving to popular demand and returning to Central in the morning.

“I’m afraid running a country does demand some attention,” he said. “And there’s been a food shortage in the north, and if I stay away any longer, I’m pretty sure General Armstrong is going to lead a coup.”

He laughed, though Winry didn’t think he was completely joking.

“I’m glad to hear you are returning to Central, but I wouldn’t take much stock in that information, sir. The good general loves Briggs too much,” Miles said, pausing for dramatic effect. “And… I don’t think she wants to be Fuhrer. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“What?” Mustang said, dropping the napkin he’d been fiddling with. “I have my own man posted in Briggs for months, and he keeps saying Armstrong is hankering for the crown, and now you tell me she doesn’t care! What’s the point? I knew Falman had switched to Armstrong’s allegiance!”

“I’m pretty sure he’s just scared to death of General Armstrong,” Breda offered.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s telling Falman to feed you the wrong information on purpose,” Miles said dryly.

Mustang furrowed his brow, “Why are you telling me this, Major?”

And Winry could practically see the scheming in his eyes.

“I think you have more important things to worry about besides political maneuvering,” Miles said.

“Don’t get cocky, kid,” Fuhrer Grumman said with a laugh to Mustang. “The tides are always changing.”

The next morning the Fuhrer left with little flourish, taking his security detail with him. It would be quieter without the extra men, though Winry had hardly seen much of them since she’d arrived.

When the train rolled out mid-morning, Winry’s heart felt lighter, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Perhaps it was because her next stop was the flower stand in the marketplace to talk to the woman about her artificial limb options. Or maybe it was because, even as the sun shined brightly in a sky as cloudless as it always was here, and even though the sun beat down on her neck, she didn’t feel as uncomfortably hot as the day she’d arrived. The sand made her feet sink into the ground, like she was being welcomed into Ishval for the first time.

“And so it begins,” Miles muttered under his breath, turning away from the train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next week, we’ll be checking back into Roy Mustang’s POV! 
> 
> As always, reviews are cherished


	5. Roy Mustang II

Chapter 5 Roy Mustang II

Mustang was both looking forward to the Fuhrer’s departure from Ishval and dreading it.  

Things would be better, because without the Fuhrer, he no longer had to worry about Grumman’s security force. Although Mustang was sure that most of them were probably fine, being “probably fine” was not something he was willing to bet the entire outcome of the Accords on. They were variables that Mustang couldn’t account for. The last thing Mustang wanted was for one of them to go rogue and hurt an Ishvalan. The only thing that could halt the Ishvalan Accords quicker would be Mustang himself striding through Kedesh, flame in hand, threatening to burn the city to the ground. So Mustang was definitely happy with the security force gone.  

Also, if something nefarious had happened to the Fuhrer while he was in Ishval, Mustang couldn’t even imagine the ramifications. An attack on the Fuhrer would be an act of war, and Mustang didn’t think even he’d be able to quiet the war-mongering spirit, built into the very fabric of Amestris.

So given the strange attack on the Elrics a few days ago, Mustang was very glad the Fuhrer was leaving. Despite the alchemic power of their attacker, Mustang and his men had found no trace of the man or any clues to his location. It was like he had just vanished, and that was not a good feeling for anyone.

But Mustang was no slouch at alchemy either, and he should have no trouble if the man decided to strike again. And yet, the fears still clouded his mind: what if the man returned and attacked civilians, what if he attacked the Elrics again, what if he attacked the delegation.

Of course, these fears were based in a lot of ‘what ifs’ and Mustang didn’t usually dwell on such remote possibilities, but these were the Ishvalan Accords. They had to go well, or everything Mustang had worked for had been for nothing. His responsibility was to plan for every possibility of disaster and ensure that none of them occurred.

So Mustang was glad to be free of his Fuhrer-related worries, but with Grumman gone, Mustang wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Ariyn Fitzgerald. Because Ariyn Fitzgerald listened to the Fuhrer. Kicking and screaming (more like glaring and plotting), but she listened to what he said. Maybe it was out of necessity or maybe it was respect. Or maybe she thought she could play mind games with him until he conceded. But regardless, Grumman had been able to keep her relatively in line.

Mustang had no confidence in his own ability to do so, because Mustang’s relationship with her was much simpler. He hated her. She knew it. She probably hated him too. Hawkeye tried to get him to see it from Ariyn’s side. (Of course, this was when she had fled from her own room to hide from Ariyn, so what could she say?)

“She’s an average Amestrian citizen who just wants her country to get better,” Hawkeye said. “She doesn’t think Ishval is Amestrian responsibility.”

“And that’s evil,” Havoc chimed in from the bed, as he laid upside down and smoked, a potentially dangerous combination.

“If you can’t convince Ariyn, you can’t convince Parliament. And if you can’t do that-”

“It doesn’t matter because the Fuhrer has all the power,” Mustang said with a petulant frown.

Hawkeye sighed, “No, because while the Fuhrer can do whatever he wants, if you can’t convince Parliament, it’ll be a dictatorship again.”

“Which is fine,” Breda said.

“Perhaps,” Hawkeye said, though Mustang knew she didn’t agree. “But you don’t have the support the Fuhrer has. If you push this through, this might be the beginning and end of your political career. Which means General is as high as you go, and in six months, you might find yourself unemployed.”

He hated when Hawkeye was right. It wasn’t about Ariyn. It was about convincing people about the importance of Ishval.

“Show pictures of the devastation,” Havoc suggested.  

But people didn’t like to be reminded of their sins.

“Do it in a non-judgmental way then,” Havoc said.

If only it were that simple. Mustang’s best bet was to somehow convince Ariyn, and let her deal with Parliament. With her support, it all might fall into place. But that was a big if.

The next morning Elders Shan and Vikram asked the delegation to leave the negotiating table behind for an afternoon. It was less of them asking and more of them demanding, but despite the fact that they didn’t give any details, Mustang had no problem with it. Actually, he welcomed the chance to delay fighting with Ariyn Fitzgerald again. She’d been shooting him strange looks he didn’t know how to interpret, which felt like a bad sign.

The delegation (minus Edward, though Mustang wasn’t sure if he counted as a formal member) walked through Kedesh, led by Elder Vikram, to a building that looked exactly like Abra’s inn, but was about three streets down.  

“Why are we even here?” Ariyn Fitzgerald muttered, as they were ushered inside without any explanation. It made even less sense once they got in, because the building was a housing complex. Although it was sparsely decorated, Mustang spotted a kitchen tucked away in the back corner and a series of closed doors, likely leading to apartments. But the Ishvalans said nothing, and they were led upstairs. And then upstairs again, and they continued climbing up until they couldn’t go any higher. Elder Vikram pushed the last door open, and the scorching Ishvalan air hit them at once. They followed Elder Vikram onto a large, flat roof.   

“Why are we here?” Ariyn asked. She was out of breath from the stairs, trying to hide her shallow breaths. But she couldn’t hide her flushed face. Havoc didn’t look much better, though in his defense, he had a pretty good excuse.

“We’ve been fighting about the Ishvalan fate for days now,” Elder Shan said. For all her hobbling, she didn’t seem phased by the staircases. In fact, she seemed livelier than Mustang could ever remember. “I’d like to give you a little perspective.”

She gestured to the ground below.

“Today there’s something very exciting happening,” Elder Shan continued. “A wedding. I wanted to show you a bit of Ishval. A bit of real Ishval. While we fight about the future of Ishval, Ishval still lives on. It can be easy to forget.”

“We’re crashing a wedding?” Havoc whispered, and Hawkeye, bless her, kicked him.

“Ishvalan wedding ceremonies are mostly communal affairs, and often are outside,” Elder Shan said. “Because of our… unique circumstances, we’re not going to impose on the wedding party, but we thought you might benefit from the experience up here, nevertheless.”  

“Benefit?” Ariyn Fitzgerald asked, but not loud enough for the Ishvalans to hear. Still, they must have read the disbelief on her face.

“Ishvalan culture is very different from life in Amestris. It has to be, so it cannot be governed in the same way,” Miles said.

“Weddings,” Elder Shan said, “are something special, in any culture, I think. Wouldn’t you agree? We don’t get a lot of weddings here in Kedesh. At least not yet. Of course, we’re still waiting for some of the older folks to get married. Very soon, I hope.” She sent a pointed look towards Scar (Heridas he corrected), but Heridas refused to even look in her direction.

Without another word, the Elders left the roof, bounding back down the stairs with more energy than Mustang had ever seen in anyone that old.  

“They’re wedding guests,” Miles supplied without prompting.

“So the real reason we’re here is so the Elders can sneak away from the Accords for a wedding,” Mustang whispered to Miles, mostly in jest.

But Miles was just… Miles, and he answered seriously.

“Perhaps, but-” He raised his voice, so he was addressing everyone on the roof. “Ishvalan culture is something that many of us here are ignorant about. Myself included. To govern Ishval in any capacity, you have to understand it. I’m sure you can appreciate the importance of that, Representative Fitzgerald. Although there’s been a movement of homogeny developing across Amestris, we can all agree that what Briggs requires is far different than what Central needs.”

His piece said, Miles crossed the roof towards the side closest to the square and leaned over the railing. The others followed behind.

“It feels like we’re spying on them,” Havoc said. And so it did. Mustang glanced over to Hawkeye, whose face was white. Of course. They were at a sniper’s height. This was how she’d once viewed Ishval, from the skies and through her rifle’s scope, Ishval hidden behind her cross-hairs.

“Ishvalan weddings are public affairs,” Miles said, never removing his eyes from the people milling in the square below. “Pretty much the whole town makes an appearance. No one’s really invited, so we’re not spying on them exactly. Just…” Miles faded off, and Mustang could imagine why.

Although everyone in the town was invited, he doubted it extended to the Amestrian military officers who’d taken up temporary residence in one of their inns. So they watched from the skies. Mustang tried to quiet the voices in his head that kept reminding him of the War, of looking down on crowds of Ishvalans, knowing they would all die from his hand.

But it was different from before. For many reasons, but one of the most obvious to Mustang was his own vision. It had always been pristine. He’d never had the Hawk’s eye, but now, as he stared down at the mass of people, stragglers continuing to stumble in, he couldn’t distinguish any of their faces. Even their bodies were distant blurs, and Mustang cursed himself for being too stubborn to bring his glasses. He didn’t know how long Ishvalan weddings were, but it was going to be boring, if all he could rely on was his damaged vision.

He watched the the sea of white, and suddenly spotted a break in the uniformity. It was close to white, but he could distinguish a blond blob on the periphery. Mustang leaned over to Hawkeye’s ear.

“Are those the Elrics? And Winry?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “They’re with the innkeeper and the innkeeper’s boy,” she added.

Mustang squinted, but couldn’t distinguish Abra or Gilad. It made sense that the Ishvalans wouldn’t have the same opposition to the Elrics as they would to Mustang and the other Amestrians, but he did his best to squelch his jealousy. With little else to stare at, he watched the blond blob move from one side of the square to the other.

Suddenly, the crowd silenced, and their heads all turned to the far end of the square. The procession was led by a single person, but he couldn’t distinguish any details until his arms started pounding upon a drum he must have been carrying. Even from the roof, the drum’s crisp, even tone reverberated clearly. The drummer was followed by a mass of people wearing red.

And then the square erupted in a soft melody. Without any prompting Mustang could see, their voices rose to the heavens, as the crowd parted for the processional, which was stepping towards a raised platform; their feet walking on the beat of the drum. It wasn’t a mournful song, but it wasn’t a joyous one either, like Mustang would expect to hear at a wedding. It was simple, but he found himself getting overwhelmed by the hundreds of voices singing in unison.

There was something uniquely beautiful about a wedding, a promise of tomorrow but a celebration of today.

He wished he’d brought his glasses. Especially because once the processional stepped onto the platform (which was also red), they were drowned out in a red blur. But he couldn’t ask anyone; all on the roof were bewitched by the proceedings. Even Heridas stared, completely fixated on the wedding, though his eyes were tinged with sadness, rather than marvel.

“That was the bride, groom, and their immediate families, it seems. Now Elders Shan and Vikram are accompanied with three other Elders, and they’re all walking towards the square’s center,” Hawkeye whispered to him. She didn’t even glance over to Mustang, and he didn’t know what to say. But without any prompting, throughout the rest of the ceremony, she narrated the entire proceedings.

Her voice was calm and level, as though she were giving a military report to him. She spoke quietly, so no one else could bear witness to his shame, his flaw, his eyesight permanently damaged by something beyond understanding.

The drum beat ceased, and the crowd silenced except for a few hushed murmurs.

An elder Hawkeye didn’t recognize led the ceremony, all in Ishvalan. Although no one on the roof could understand it except Heridas, no one’s attention waivered, even Ariyn Fitzgerald’s.

The last wedding Mustang went to was Hughes and Gracia’s, and the ceremony was a short affair, mostly filled with their own personal vows. It had been so deeply personal that Mustang had felt it was awkward just watching them declaring their undying love and loyalty to each other.

During this wedding, however, the bride and groom were mostly silent, with the Elders trading off speaking, and Hawkeye noted to him that the kids in the audience were starting to get finicky. The international impatience of children.

The bride and the groom said a few short words, and then suddenly, there was cheering and clapping and the music began again.

“The bride and groom are stepping down and greeting their guests,” Hawkeye whispered, and he could somewhat make out two red blobs moving off the stage.

“Let’s go,” Heridas said with a scowl. “No more to see here.”

Mustang doubted that, considering the celebration had barely begun, but the ceremonial piece had finished, and he was right that they had no place spying on an Ishvalan celebration. So without a protest, they descended down the stairs, through dimly lit hallways and narrow corridors, and finally, back out into the sunshine on the street.

The wedding had spread, so as they left, they were met with the periphery of the celebration. Faster- paced music had begun, and distant couples danced through the square, their bodies intertwined and spinning effortlessly.

But although the celebratory feelings were intoxicating, he knew the ecstasy of the wedding hid the deeper troubles that plagued Kedesh. He couldn’t keep the frown from his lips.

“Wait!” a sweet voice called out, and the delegation turned around to see an Ishvalan woman, dressed in red, running up beside them.

“That’s the bride,” Hawkeye muttered to him. At her arrival, she bowed to them, and they bowed back. She was dressed simply, the Ishvalan burgundy and gold sash nowhere to be found. Jewelry adorned her neck, ears, and wrists, which glittered in the sun, and her skirt rustled as she moved. Her white hair was interwoven with a red ribbon. For a moment, Mustang was sure she’d come to chew them out, for having the audacity of attending her wedding without her permission, for attending as Amestrians. For attending as Amestrian soldiers.

But then her face broke out into a wide grin, which crinkled her eyes, and Mustang couldn’t ever remember such a happy expression on an Ishvalan directed at him before.

“I’m sorry that you were relegated to the roof,” she said, her voice tinkling. “I didn’t know until just now. We wouldn’t have minded your attendance.”

“Padma, we didn’t want to concern you on this busy day,” Miles said, as serious as always, but Padma laughed.

“This wedding is an excuse to celebrate,” she said. “All this fuss comes with the territory, I’m afraid. We’d be just as happy if it were just my husband, me, and a few of our closest friends in a shack, but that was nixed by my mother-in-law!” She laughed, and it was infectious. The air felt lighter than before.

“Don’t you think your funds would be better served in other ways?” Ariyn Fitzgerald asked, and the bride’s face fell a bit, before immediately brightening.

“The moment you stop celebrating is the moment you truly die,” Padma said, gesturing around her, which made her embroidered bracelets clink together. “The moment you forget about the humanity of each other is when you’ve truly lost.”

“Of course,” Ariyn Fitzgerald said. “I just meant-”

“Of course,” Padma said. “I know what you meant.”

At this point, Padma’s new husband had noticed his missing bride and had come bounding over as well, giving a quick bow to the gathered Amestrians. He too was wearing red, but his white hair was braided down his back. For a moment, the young man reminded him of Fullmetal and his youthful energy, but Mustang pushed it aside.

“You don’t need to leave so soon,” Padma’s husband said. “There will be food and more dancing. A lot more dancing, honestly. And a lot of food.”

They certainly didn’t want to impose, but with both newlyweds smiling eagerly at the group, Mustang didn’t know how to say no, so he acquiesced to spending a short while in the square itself, unsure of how other Ishvalans would react.

On a normal day, the Amestrians got stared at wherever they went, but today, no one gave them a second glance, as though the joyous air blinded the Ishvalans to their blue uniforms. However, the Amestrians knew, without conferring, not to let their guards down, which meant that Havoc couldn’t drink excessively. Disappointing for Havoc, but as someone who’d carried him home after one too many drinks on multiple occasions, probably much better for everyone else. But it’s not like they couldn’t have fun: before they left later that afternoon, Havoc and Breda (and even Miles) had all danced at least twice with different Ishvalan women.  

Mustang hadn’t seen it happen the first time, but Hawkeye nudged him and muttered, “2 o’clock. 30 feet.” Fear rushed through him, but she was only drawing his attention to Havoc, who was bounding along with a young Ishvalan woman with a pep in his step, as though he’d never had any leg injuries. The woman in question’s hair flowed through the wind, revealing her gleeful grin.

Mustang couldn’t understand it. They were Amestrian soldiers, and they’d been treated with distrust with a sprinkle of kindness, since they’d arrived. Mustang remained lost in his thoughts, sitting towards the edge of the square. At this point, even Hawkeye had abandoned him, vanishing in her pursuit of locating the Elrics and Winry.

“You look awfully glum,” Abra said, plopping down next to Mustang, before offering her plate to him. Mustang refused, and she dropped a little dumpling in her mouth.

“Why are we here?” Mustang asked, his eyes fixated on the square, which was still full of dancing bodies. The music had quieted somewhat but hadn’t decreased in intensity. The bride and groom were out dancing as well, their elbows linked as they ran in circles, giggling like children.

“It’s a wedding,” Abra said. “You were invited, apparently.”

“But we shouldn’t have been,” Mustang said, and Abra tutted.

“Don’t speak ill of the newlyweds on their wedding day,” she said, chewing on another dumpling.

“But the people here hate us,” Mustang said. “Not that they don’t have a good reason too, sure, but no one is-”

“What? Throwing food at you? Yelling at you? Spitting on you?” Abra asked.

“Well, yeah.”

“It’s a wedding, not a riot, General. You were invited,” Abra said. She’d finished her food and was looking longingly at her empty plate.

“How can everyone here be okay with this? Why did we get invited?”

Abra was easy to talk to. Too easy for his liking. Her matter-of-fact way of speaking, combined with her understanding gaze, made hidden thoughts fall from his lips, and it was not something he was familiar or comfortable with.

“The bride and groom, instead of getting angry, invited you. I’m not saying they’ve forgiven you or are your new best friends, but it’s not about you. It’s about them. And they’ve chosen to be happy. To not dwell on the past, and to look forward to the future.”

“But-”

“Look, General,” Abra said. “If you want to find Ishvalans who are angry and will accept nothing from you, you’ll find them. There are many of them. But if you open your mind, you’ll see that every Ishvalan here has had different experiences, and they’re not just one faceless mass. They’re made up of individuals with different opinions and ideas. Some think we need reconciliation to lead to peace, like the bride and groom. And some think we need independence at all costs, violence and consequences be damned. And then there are most people, who are somewhere on that spectrum.”

“Where do you fall on it, Madam?” Mustang asked. It was presumptuous, but he figured that she wouldn’t mind.

“Do you know how many places were discussed for the Ishvalan Accords before they settled on my humble inn?” she asked, casually avoiding the question.

“No.” Honestly, the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Four,” she said, shaking her head. “Two inns and two government buildings. There were some logistical problems, but they didn’t settle on mine because it was the grandest.” She snorted. “Certainly not. But no one else wanted it. They thought it might bring danger or the wrong sorts of people. That some Ishvalans might think of it as a betrayal and not visit their bars as retribution. Or maybe they just don’t support what you’re doing.”

“But you do?” Mustang asked.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, General, it’s not that simple. But I do think there should be some negotiations on the table, and why shouldn’t it be at my inn? If this passes, it becomes a historical monument!” She snorted again, before patting Mustang on the leg. “Chin up. Sure, it’s a hard road, but it’s one you’re glad you’re on.”

The wedding didn’t last much longer, so before night fell, the delegation returned with Abra back to her inn. Ariyn Fitzgerald had left earlier, complaining of stomach pain, so it was an unexpectedly pleasant walk back.  Much to his surprise, Mustang was glad he’d attended the wedding, and he felt like he understood the Ishvalan culture the tiniest bit better. He seemed to sense a running theme with Ishvalans: a celebration of life because what other option was there? It lifted his spirits marginally.

But he had so much to worry about.

Like the mysterious attacker. And the entire Ishvalan Accords essentially falling on his shoulders.

“Thanks,” Mustang whispered to Hawkeye that night. She’d fled her room due to Ariyn Fitzgerald’s incessant complaining but was surprised to find Havoc and Breda asleep. Only Mustang still sat up, as sleepless as though it were noon. 

“For what, sir?” Hawkeye asked.

“For narrating the wedding for me.”

“I certainly don’t know what you mean,” she said with a soft smile, and he’d always enjoyed their bantering so much more in person, as opposed to over the phone. Then he could see her lips.

Havoc and Breda slept on, but Mustang felt restless, and he invited Hawkeye to accompany him on a walk.

“I’ll follow you anywhere, sir,” she said, and he was pretty sure she was teasing, but it was sometimes hard to tell.  

They tiptoed out of the inn, exhaling loudly as soon as they cleared the gate. It wasn’t like they were prisoners there, but it was still a discussion he’d rather not have with the Ishvalans. Both Hawkeye and Mustang were still dressed for bed, and he noticed immediately that the Ishvalan heat was much more tolerable outside of the Amestrian military uniform.

“It’s also nighttime,” Hawkeye said, and he must have been thinking aloud again.

They strolled down past the town square, beyond the marketplace, and through the newly built section of Kedesh. They walked side by side, in a way they couldn’t do in the daytime, not when they were following military procedure. Mustang had always preferred walking in step with Hawkeye.

It was silent and the streets were abandoned, quiet after they’d been filled with joyous music for most of the afternoon and evening.  

They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to. The lighting in the town was dim, but the stars were bright, illuminating the twists of the pathway. He didn’t know how long they’d been walking, when they reached the beginnings of the Old City of Kedesh and its ruins.

They stopped on the hill overlooking the devastation. Although neither of them had done any damage in Kedesh, here their sins weren’t just shared nightmares.

“It reminds me of the war,” Hawkeye said finally. “It’s like we never left.”

Ishvalan cities looked very similar to his eye, and he could easily imagine standing here with Hawkeye, with Maes Hughes bounding up beside them and talking about Gracia. He could even imagine Kimblee leaning against debris with his bitter smirk and cold eyes. It was so clear to him, even if it was years ago. When he could have never imagined being back in Ishval of his own free will.  

“This will never leave us,” Mustang said.

“It shouldn’t.”

“Do you think we deserve to be happy?”

The question fell from his lips, and it reminded him of when they’d first returned from Ishval. When the nightmares plagued them and they’d sit beside each other until sunrise, sometimes not speaking a word. But sometimes they would worry aloud of their sins, the ones that could never be cleansed.

“I don’t know, sir,” Hawkeye said carefully. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think we do,” he said. “But still… being happy… it’s not exactly something you can choose. Sometimes it happens and you might not deserve it, but it’s still there.”  

He kept staring at the ruins, thinking back to his conversation with Abra. He wanted to keep talking with Hawkeye, but he stopped himself before he revealed something better left unsaid.  

“I’m not making any sense, am I?” he asked.

“You’re not.” But the harsh words were mitigated with a smile, and she knew him well enough that she was probably lying.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but it felt very late, and so their feet carried them back to the inn.

 “The wedding was beautiful,” Hawkeye said, as they passed through the square again. It seemed impossible that it had been filled with people just hours before. Now it was empty and clean, all evidence of a party vanished in the sands.

“It was,” Mustang said.

“It was wonderful to see life moving on,” she said. “A wedding is the happiest day in someone’s life.” She paused. “It’s a reminder. Ishval’s story doesn’t end with us.”

“Ishval’s story doesn’t end with us,” Mustang echoed.

They said nothing else as they returned to the inn, and Hawkeye tried to hide a yawn as they crept up the stairs.

“I didn’t mean to keep you up,” he said.

“You didn’t.”

“Good night, Riza.”

“Good night, Roy.”

Hawkeye slipped into her room, but Mustang didn’t move from the hallway for a full minute. He’d gotten better at soothing the tightness in his chest whenever Hawkeye made him feel…. happy, and unwillingly his mind would leap to the possibilities.

Marriage, even children.

He’d grown used to squelching it, but as he stood in the dark hallway in Ishval, nothing seemed unbelievable; nothing seemed impossible. Even his own happy ending. He knew reason would come back to him when the sun rose, but he reveled in this optimism for a moment longer.

The last thing he thought of that night was Riza dressed in red holding his hand.  

However, the morning brought another day of negotiations with a new set of challenges.

Essentially, the Ishvalans wanted funds to build a new temple.

“But don’t you already have a temple in Kedesh?” Mustang asked.

“The temple we are currently using is a shack,” Elder Vikram said. “We have suffered in silence because of the needs of the many, but as we are developing Kedesh into the capital of Ishval and a proper Ishvalan city, we require a larger temple.”

It was probably the most words Mustang had ever heard out of Elder Vikram’s mouth, which made Mustang take the request more seriously.

“It’s all about giving money,” Ariyn Fitzgerald said with a sneer. “I didn’t want to do it yesterday or the day before, why would I do it now?”

“Representative Fitzgerald,” Heridas began with the eternal patience Mustang had come to expect from him (so different from Scar). “Before the War, Ishval was not an impoverished country. Not only was the war expensive, the Amestrian soldiers, in between killing everyone in their paths, stole millions of cenz worth of valuables: gold, jewelry, antiques, art. These things were highly valuable, monetarily and sentimentally, which cannot be priced.”

“It’s not like me or my constituents ever saw Ishvalan gold or paintings!” Ariyn said, her face slightly flushed.

Heridas sighed and rubbed his temples.                              

“Those stolen valuables were pumped into the Amestrian economy, which has been doing very well over the past few decades. No, you may not have benefited directly if you didn’t know soldiers in the war, but you and everyone in the country benefited indirectly from the pouring of wealth that came from my people. You cannot sit in judgment of our poverty when it is you who has benefited from it!”

Heridas’ eyes flashed, daring Ariyn to continue fighting. In his anger, his x-shaped scar shone from his face, and Mustang was ashamed of his instinctive urge to reach into his pocket for his gloves. But the moment passed, and Heridas gave a cursory glance to the others in the room, before marching out.  

Elder Vikram eyed the door too, but he didn’t rise.

“Perhaps a visit to the current temple is in order, so you can see the deficiencies we’re speaking of,” Miles said, but Ariyn Fitzgerald huffed and wouldn’t look at him.

It was frustrating beyond words that Ariyn was interrupting the proceedings, because as much as the Ishvalans and the Amestrians (besides Ariyn) both wanted peace and prosperity in Ishval, they did not agree on everything: on the best way to achieve it and what the final Ishval should look like. But they couldn’t have the meaningful discussions they wanted to, because they were too busy trying to appease Ariyn Fitzgerald, who acted like she had been forced at gunpoint to attend the meetings. Hawkeye had been kindly trying to convince her to go back to Central, but Ariyn waved off every request.

Any real discourse had to be done in the moments they caught when Ariyn wasn’t around.

For what it was worth, Mustang didn’t think a temple was a great thing for Amestris to fund either. To the Amestrian public, it presented a parasitic Ishval that wanted to feed off of Amestrian wealth.

He said as much, though in kinder language, at least to show Ariyn Fitzgerald that she wasn’t completely alone.

Elder Shan searched Mustang’s face, before nodding.

“I will concede your point, General, but what will you give me instead?”

Mustang searched for something to say, but it was Hawkeye that saved the day, per usual.

“Complete funding for the train project.”

Ariyn gawked.

“The two are not equal,” Ariyn said, gritting her teeth.  

“I will accept such an arrangement,” Elder Shan said, and Ariyn rose.

“Am I not speaking Amestrian? Are you completely ignoring everything I’m saying?” she said. “This is unheard of in my entire term as a member of a parliamentary body-”

She went off for a few minutes, and Mustang, with growing practice, tuned her out with ease.

“Without an arrangement that is satisfactory to not just Parliament but to Ishvalans as well, we are opening the doors to another war down the road,” Mustang said, not sure if Ariyn was done or if she’d merely just taken a breath, but he didn’t wait to find out. “I’m sure no one wants that. Compromise is what we’re trying to do here, Representative.”

“Do you know how much Amestris spends per year in the never-ending Aurego conflict?” Miles asked curtly. “What we’re talking about today, for the temple, for the train, is a tiny fraction of that. And it’s a measure of prevention, not a war.”

“That’s about protecting our borders!”

“This is about easing the suffering of an entire region of people,” Elder Shan shot back.

“You Ishvalans seem to be doing just fine!” Ariyn’s bun had loosened, and she had a strangely maniacal gleam in her eyes. She took a few deep breaths, and her voice evened out. “No deal on the train funding.”

“Ishval cannot develop without funding from-”

“This has nothing to do with-”

Edward, who’d been silent thus far, slammed his hand onto the table, and everyone silenced and stared at him.

“Ishval is changing,” Edward said. “The Ishval of today is really different than the old Ishval. I’m sure we can all agree on that, at least. Ishval needs to keep growing, because stagnation would be the worst thing that could happen. Well, one of the worst, I guess.” Edward shook his head. “Anyway, even though Ishval and Amestris have vastly different amounts of resources, the cultural gap between the two areas has never been smaller.”

 “Ishval and Amestris have vastly different cultures,” Ariyn said. “We saw as much yesterday at the wedding, yes?” She raised an eyebrow towards Edward, who didn’t rise to the bait.

“That’s true. Ishval and Amestris are very different, but what about Isvhalans my age?”

“What about them?”

“A lot of them are… well, they’re kind of Amestrians,” Edward said, and both Elder Vikram and Ariyn Fitzgerald sneered. The only thing the two seemed to have in common.

“Look, I’m not trying to say that there are no cultural differences obviously, but I think that you forget that young Ishvalans don’t remember living in Ishval so well. Many of them grew up in Amestris. Some beyond Amestrian borders, but many of them lived in Amestris. Sure, they were sub-citizens living in slums, but still. They are not so different than you or me.” Edward smirked. “We’re all human, right?”

“You’re saying the future generation will be more homogenized with Amestris,” Elder Vikram said, disdain not hidden from his face. 

Edward shook his head, “No. Well, maybe a little. But it’s not a bad thing.” He leaned forward, pressing his hands onto the table. “Ishval is very different from the rest of Amestris, and opening doors to share pieces of culture is potentially a good thing. If Ishval wants to become its own country, it’s fine that it’s separate, but if it stays as part of Amestris, its isolation is potentially dangerous.”

“And why is that, young man?” Elder Vikram asked.

“Because the gulf between Amestris and Ishval has always led to conflict, but more than that. Even before the War, life outside of Ishval was exciting for young Ishvalans. They wanted to explore the outside world and see different things. You remember this,” Edward said to the Elders.

“You want us to abandon our culture and way of life as a cost of entry into Amestris?” Elder Vikram spat.

“All I’m saying is that what I’ve seen of the Ishvalan way of life is that it’s stringent, which is fine, but it should be allowed to bend before it breaks. When that is allowed to happen, it can be brilliant.”

“You know nothing of our problems,” Elder Vikram said, but Elder Shan nodded.

“You’re not wrong, but what is your point? Why bring this up now?”

Edward shrugged and said nothing. Mustang felt like he sort of understood what Edward was getting at, so he decided to try to explain.

“Ishval’s modernization is finally continuing,” Mustang began. “And it can be helped by Amestrians, so that Amestrians can have a part in its development and the cultures can build off of each other. Or Amestris can sit and watch the modernization occur and potentially create another hostile enemy in the region. Ishvalan and Amestrian cultures do not have to be at odds. They are not opposites, and when cultures come together, something beautiful can occur. Is that right, Edward?”

Edward nodded.

“Didn’t know Edward had it in him,” Havoc said, after Mustang, Havoc, Breda, and Hawkeye gathered in their room later that night.

“It was mostly me,” Mustang muttered.

 “Still, we probably need a miracle to get this thing finished,” Havoc said, but when he saw the expression on Mustang’s face, backtracked, fumbling about how it was going as well as could be expected.

But rather than getting angry, Mustang laughed. It was a slightly hysterical laughter, even to his own ears.

“Sir?” Hawkeye said.

Mustang didn’t share what he found so funny, mostly because he couldn’t put it into words. The entire situation was absurd. Here he was, trying to find the words to bridge the gaps between Amestris and Ishval, and he’d never had to rely on words before. Usually he could snap his fingers and the problem would vanish.

He was in Ishval, trying to appeal to a powerless Parliament and satisfy Ishvalans. Some wanted entry into Amestris again, some wanted independence, and all he knew was that, in the end, nobody was going to be happy.

Hawkeye sighed, “I suppose I better make nice with Ariyn.” Mustang knew she’d been trying to figure Ariyn out. Learn her weaknesses and what made her tick, but Ariyn played things close to the chest. Mustang smiled regardless. If there was anyone Mustang would trust to get into Ariyn’s head, it would be Hawkeye.

Mustang was therefore surprised when, just a few minutes later, Ariyn Fitzgerald knocked on his door.

“Can we speak in private?” she asked, and dumbfounded, he nodded. They exited the inn silently, and when they’d gotten as far as the cobblestone, she spun around.

“You want to be Fuhrer, right?”

Roy Mustang was positive that there must have been a bulletin going around proclaiming his intentions, because he definitely hadn’t told anyone who would have shared it with Ariyn Fitzgerald. And though he knew there were rumors, he didn’t think they’d be loud enough for the Representative to take them seriously.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked.

She smiled coyly, “Well, if someone were theoretically interested in becoming Fuhrer, they’d need all the help they could get, right?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

“Theoretically,” he agreed.

“So, if you scratch my back now, you might find someone willing to scratch your back in a few years. Maybe even before Fuhrer Grumman leaves office.”

Mustang was able to keep the disgust off his face, but only barely, “I don’t know what you mean, Representative.”

“Don’t act coy with me, Mustang,” she said, all flattery and political dancing gone. “You want to become Fuhrer. Everyone in Central knows that by now. You haven’t exactly been subtle. If you help me keep the Ishvalan treaty favorable for my people, you’ll find yourself with quite a few allies come whenever you get tired of playing general.”

There was a time Mustang would have done anything to be Fuhrer, but he was glad that time had passed. Especially with Grumman in charge, he’d been able to relax a bit more, with his faith that Grumman was a good man.

“I’m sorry, Representative, but you must be misinformed,” he said, and he couldn’t think of anything else to say that wouldn’t make the situation worse. So he walked away, ignoring Ariyn’s thunderstruck look.

Sleep came easier that night, and he wished, not for the first time, that the images of dead Ishvalan children and burning flesh wouldn’t haunt him in his dreams. He knew he had no right to complain about a few nightmares, not when he’d caused them, but the sleeplessness seemed to accompany the dry desert air.

After waking up in the middle of the night, sure his camp was about to be attacked by Ishvalan soldiers (who were probably no older than Edward was now), he closed his eyes again. But this time he dreamed of nothing but hazel eyes.

The next morning, Mustang left his room strangely invigorated. But when he entered the lounge, his eyes were immediately drawn to an unfamiliar Ishvalan woman. Mustang was surprised by her appearance, but seeing Winry with her, he understood her presence.

The Ishvalan woman’s left arm stopped just before the elbow, but he couldn’t tell her age with her back to him. Her white hair flowed down her back unrestrained from clips, which sat beside her on the table. Winry was kneeling in front of her, analyzing her stumped arm. For automail, Mustang presumed.

Breakfast waited on the bar, an informal spread before the negotiations were set to resume in a few hours. He didn’t pay much mind to anything but the food, chewing slowly and watching Edward and Alphonse in discussion with the Ishvalan woman. He could see now that she was missing her front two teeth but was younger than he’d suspected. Her face only lined when she smiled, which she did often while talking to the Elrics. Mustang couldn’t hear their conversation, but assumed it was about something far away from the painful realities of Ishval.

“Good morning, sir,” Hawkeye said, and she sat beside him.

“You slept late,” he said, but she shook her head.

“Been up for hours,” she said. “I was just helping Abra, and then-” her voice lowered. “I spoke with the Elders.”

“And?”

“They’re growing frustrated,” she said.

“They’re not the only ones.”

“Of course not,” she said. “But they have a larger stake in this, and the she-devil has none. Havoc wants to get the Fuhrer to call her back to Central for parliamentary reasons.”

“Can’t we?” Mustang asked, and the corners of Hawkeye’s lips upturned the smallest bit.

“No, sir, but I will say this. Elder Shan was impressed with Edward. That’ll be helpful for us.”

Mustang watched Edward laugh with Alphonse, still talking to the Ishvalan woman. Winry measured the woman’s arm, scowling at the woman’s inability to stay still.

“Still think it was a bad idea to bring them, sir?”

Mustang tore his gaze away from them and back to Hawkeye, “I suppose not. Think we could recruit Fullmetal into politics?”

“He’s happy now. Don’t take that away from him with the horror of politics.” She was probably only half-joking.

“General Mustang! Good morning. Have you slept well?” Abra asked, as she carried a tray of breads into the lounge. Hawkeye rose automatically to assist her with it, but Abra brushed her off.

At Abra’s entrance, the Ishvalan woman whipped her head around, her gaze finally landing on Mustang himself. Her red eyes stared into his black ones, and Mustang got the feeling he was being judged. Emotions he couldn’t read flickered across her face, before she turned back to Winry. (Whose patience was being tested by the woman’s restlessness.)

When Miles entered the lounge a few minutes later, Mustang rose to greet him, but Miles brushed past Mustang to greet the Ishvalan woman first. His voice was low, his face emotionless.

“I know,” the woman said, loud enough for Mustang to hear. “I do not have the luxury of forgetting.”

She addressed Mustang for the first time, “This man here, Major Miles, is trying to make sure I don’t poison you or anything. If I was going to try and kill you, it’d be to your face, so don’t you worry your pretty, little head.”

She twisted back to Miles, “Happy?”

Miles scowled, “That’s not what I meant, Madam Jayanti.” And the woman laughed. (Either Winry had given up for the moment on accurate measurements or she’d finished, checking off notes on a clipboard.)

“Let’s have some fun, shall we?” she asked Miles, who shuddered. Mustang had the feeling he wasn’t going to like what was coming.

“Madam, can I see your other arm now?” Winry asked, unaware of what she was in the middle of. But then again, Mustang didn’t understand it either.

The woman ignored Winry’s request and looked Mustang in the eyes again.

“Do you know who I am?”

That was a horrible question to hear, for someone who’d done as many horrible things as he had. But her face was indistinguishable from the thousands of Ishvalans he’d killed. There was no way to answer her question.

“No.”

She smiled, prominently showcasing her large gap in her teeth.

“Let me show you something.” She hopped off the table, and Mustang was suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes on their interaction. From the Ishvalan delegates, who were standing at the bottom of the stairs, to the Elric brothers, to the rest of his team standing in the doorway, all eyes on Mustang and this woman.

Mustang wanted to step back as she walked towards him but he resisted the urge, calmed his breathing and waited.

She stood close to him now, and she used her stump arm to push the other arm’s sleeve out of the way. A burn encased her wrist and wrapped up to her shoulder. The corners were deep maroon, but the inside was a sickly yellow, except for a patch on her forearm that was dark, as though she’d been burned this morning and not years ago.

“It still hurts. Everyday.” she said. “And it’s not like my other arm is much help.”

Mustang didn’t know what to say. He’d experienced distrust and side-eyes since he arrived back in Ishval, and whispers of his sins had followed him the moment the war had ended, but he’d never been face to face with someone like her. A woman who’d carried his scar, while he’d been living well in East City.

“I-I-I”

He wanted to apologize, but he knew it was meaningless. He felt the eyes of the room on him, but the only ones he looked at were this woman’s.

The only thing he could say to her was the truth.

“If I could take those from you and carry them instead, I would in a heartbeat.” His eyes widened under his earnestness, but the woman didn’t react.

“That’s nice,” she said, but it lacked warmth.

“I know it doesn’t mean anything. Is there… anything I can do for you?” he asked hesitantly, as if the offer of anything from him would make her recoil in disgust.

She didn’t say anything, but she took Mustang’s hand and guided it to the burn. She placed it gently on top, and he was sickened to feel it still oozed warmth.

“I-I-I,” he spluttered. “I can’t heal it.”

She smiled and let his hand go, it fell to his side, but it still burned from the heat.

“Your hands are powerful weapons,” she said softly, but Mustang knew everyone in the lounge could hear it. “You’ve never forgotten that, yes?”

“No, I haven’t.”

She searched his face again, but gave nothing away. Mustang wasn’t sure if she was more likely to slap him or break down in tears.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“To restore Ishval.” His voice didn’t shake, which he was proud of. That he was afraid of a tiny woman, who could never hurt him physically, never crossed his mind.

“With those hands?”

“They’re the only hands I have,” he said.

“Ishval doesn’t need saving,” she said. “It doesn’t need guidance. It needs understanding and compassion.”

Mustang opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, he paused. Something wasn’t right.

And then an eruption of glass.

It pierced his ears, and instinctively, he pushed the Ishvalan woman to the ground and covered her with his body, as smoke billowed through the inn. He coughed and distantly heard others doing the same. He could feel pricks of blood where the glass had impacted his skin, but he couldn’t see anything.

He squinted, but smoke buried the lounge in darkness. And it seemed to coat his lungs, every breath painful and difficult. His vision was blurred, but he had to get to the attacker. He threw himself into the direction of the door, feeling a strange déjà vu as he stumbled around, unable to see.

He ran through the door, missing the knob only once, and heard footsteps behind him, others with the same idea.

The fresh air was miraculous and clean, but as his breath and sight returned to him in the bright sunny day, there was no attacker in sight. Miles, Breda, and Heridas were behind him, and they spread out to search for a few minutes, but they quickly came to the consensus that the attacker was long gone. He could be anywhere and anyone, and they’d lost him.

They returned to the inn disheartened. By this point, there was a small crowd blossoming around the inn who’d begun helping banish the smoke from the lounge and checking for injuries. The inn itself appeared unharmed, except for the gaping hole where the window should be.

When the lounge had been cleared of smoke and they’d returned inside, Alphonse, with Abra’s permission, alchemized the glass back into place. But just because they’d cleaned up the mess and there hadn’t been any injuries, didn’t mean this was over.

The Ishvalan woman Winry had been helping departed, but not before she sent a meaningful glance in Mustang’s direction.

They found what had caused the smoke with ease. A small smoke bomb, now obviously empty. But it bore a note. Miles opened it.

“ _Madrassi_ ,” he read out.

The Elders nodded, like they’d been expecting this, which made Mustang’s heart sink. Because _Madrassi_ was an offensive thing to call Ishvalans, something he’d heard many times during the war, or _Rassi_ for short. Miles handed the note to Mustang, and he saw nondescript handwriting neatly forming the word   _Madrassi_.

Smoke bombs like this one were commonly used during the Ishvalan War, mostly before State Alchemists were involved, but the bombs’ purpose was to cause panic in a crowd before the soldiers descended.

Mustang felt sick, which probably showed in his face, so Elder Shan came over and patted his shoulder.

“Be glad it wasn’t worse,” she said, and he tried to take that to heart, but he knew that the attack hadn’t intended to be lethal. It was merely a warning, which was even more disturbing.

Mustang held the note in his hand, and then turned to Breda, who was analyzing the bomb itself. He cleared some of the excess ash, and read out a word engraved on its side.

“ _Z’hoom_?” Breda read out. “What is that?”

“It’s a crude word to call someone who’s a mix of Ishvalan and Amestrian blood,” Miles supplied, a slight curl to his lips. He’d probably heard it hundreds of times.

Mustang surveyed the others: Ariyn who had a trickle of blood on her cheek looking more serious than Mustang could remember, Hawkeye stood emotionless in the corner, her hand hovering over the pouch which held a gun. Heridas’ face was distorted in a kind of snarl, but Mustang felt strangely numb.

His feelings would return soon, he imagined, but he felt like a spectator in an important scene, and he was in the strange predicament of not knowing what to do. He turned to Edward, and didn’t find a determined frown, like he’d expected. Instead his face was blank, but his eyes revealed a fear he didn’t expect from Fullmetal. His eyes met Mustang’s and they smoothed out into indifference, but not quick enough.

“Do you think this is the same person who attacked the Elrics?” Havoc asked.

“It very well could be,” Mustang said. “He’s trying to throw these Accords off in whatever way he can think of, most likely.”

Mustang had never been on this side of it before.

Waiting to get attacked, as they sat in an Ishvalan city, trying to fend off an Amestrian foe. That the assailant was Ishvalan seemed less likely now, if he used the word “ _Madrassi,_ ” though they couldn’t rule anything out.

All Mustang knew was that the Ishvalan Accords had grown more complicated and dangerous than even he had feared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! If you have any questions about anything in the story, just hit me up. I love hearing your thoughts and reactions to the story! That’s basically the biggest thrill there is for a writer.
> 
> Next week, we’ll visit the POV of … wait for it… Edward himself!


	6. Edward Elric I

After a smoke bomb blew open the front of the inn, the attention was finally off of Edward and Alphonse. The bomb bore the words _Madrassi (_ an unkind word for Ishvalans) and _Z’hoom_ (an unkind word for an Ishvalan-Amestrian mix), so, of course, according to everyone, the Elrics were no longer the intended targets anymore, because obviously Edward and Alphonse weren’t Ishvalan. Which meant Edward would be able to traverse Kedesh as he pleased, without anyone breathing down his neck trying to protect him.

The only person who suspected otherwise was Miles, who knew that the words _Madrassi_ and _Z’hoom_ could apply to Edward and Alphonse as well.  But despite Miles’ cornering Edward and pressuring him to confess the truth, Edward had no intention to do so, and Miles hadn’t forced the issue yet.

Miles did have a point, but Edward refused to admit it, and he refused to let this potential threat inconvenience him in any way. The inn was stifling, and Kedesh was so alive. And Edward didn’t care much about a faceless attacker, who might not even be after anything except chaos.

On the day of the smoke bombing, the entire delegation had been _encouraged_ not to leave the inn alone, especially when they knew so little about their attacker. But the people of Kedesh were going about their business, and Edward saw no reason to hide.

“You don’t really think that guy who attacked us knows… do you, Brother?” Alphonse asked, as soon as he, Winry, and Edward fled the tense environment of the Accords to the relative safety of their room. Alphonse stretched out onto the bed, but his golden eyes were wide staring up at Edward.

“I doubt it, Al,” Edward lied. “How could he know? The military didn’t even find out.”

“ _Z’hoom_. He wrote that,” Al said. “ _Z’hoom_. We are _Z’hoom_.”

Edward leaned over and pushed Al off the bed, who was so light it required very little effort. Al crumpled onto the floor, before leaping up.

“Hey!”

“Don’t call yourself that. It’s rude.”

“What does it mean?” Winry asked, pushing the brothers’ glaring faces apart.

“It comes from an Ishvalan word,” Edward said. “It literally means ‘contamination,’ like our mixed blood is contaminated.” He didn’t want to look at Alphonse, who shouldn’t have had to see the dirtier side to being Ishvalan. Edward had always tried to shield him from it the best he could.

“Oh, Edward,” Winry said, and she threw her arms around him. He hesitated, and then returned the embrace, leaning into her warmth. He felt awkward, but she smelled like oil, and for some reason, he couldn’t stop breathing it in. They let go at the same time, and Edward looked away, unable to hide the faintest blush on his cheeks.

“Don’t worry, Winry, it’ll all be fine,” he said, watching Alphonse carefully, and Alphonse nodded.

“You’re lying to me,” she said but didn’t press it.

Edward couldn’t sleep that night. He hated lying to the people he cared about, and it felt like the world was closing in around him:

The smoke bomb, which hinted at retribution to come; Miles knew that he was Ishvalan, and that was something Edward just wanted to pretend hadn’t happened; the attack on the train platform against an alchemist he couldn’t beat.

And that was on top of the confusion of just being in Ishval. His first home that he’d spent over a decade avoiding.

Although there were horrible memories here, they’d been muted by time. His strongest association with Ishval was comfort, reminding him of family long lost, as though he were being hugged by the warm air. And when he meandered through the winding streets, Edward would recall dull memories that reawakened under the scorching sun, resurrected in his mind like a flower uncurling for an early spring.

He’d remember distant moments. Of growing up in Ishval, when life was simpler and adults hid the harsh realities of the advancing war.

Edward rolled out of bed, slipped on some loose clothing and a scarf, and tiptoed out of the inn. He held his breath as the door creaked behind him, but as soon as the inn was out of sight, he already felt more like himself. The clean Ishvalan air filled his lungs, and under the great expanse of stars, he felt small. His pace was slow and his destination unknown, as he wound in and out of the Ishvalan roads.

He didn’t know where his feet were taking him until he arrived at the _Zikkaron._

It was the perfect place to think, and his mind was so muddled he needed it. All of his secrets were clawing at the surface, and it seemed inevitable that they would sneak out eventually. On the other hand, he’d hidden any Ishvalan indication for so long already- all the way through his military years as a state alchemist, even while facing down Scar and the homunculi- so he was practiced at deception.

Edward weaved in and out of the rows, paying no attention to any of the familial monuments but his own. He recognized a few of the names on other displays, but it’d been too long to associate them with faces.  Finally he arrived at his own, the _Vaidya_ plot, and without any ceremony, he collapsed onto the sand, his knees buckling beneath him.

He was not ashamed of his family or of his heritage. He’d struggled to explain why his past was a secret to Miles, and even Madam Abra had questioned him on the same thing. But she did understand more than Miles had.

“It’s not just a habit for you, dear,” she’d said. “This secret is how you survived.” She had tilted her head and frowned. “But you will not lose anything if you tell other people. The only thing you’ll find out is who your true friends are.”

Her words rang with truth, but it wasn’t that simple, he mentally argued back. Edward’s fingers followed the indentations of the letters of his family’s motto.

**_While I have breath, I have hope. When I have lost all breath, I have Ishvala._ **

Did he have Ishvala? He’d practiced the religion of Ishvala while Mom was alive, though it had been more out of imitation than any religious fervor. When Mom had died, he’d turned away from Ishvala and her teachings and into alchemy’s arms. Not that Mom had disliked alchemy. Quite the opposite, in fact, but she hadn’t seen the two as incompatible, like so many others did.

If he hadn’t embraced alchemy, Al would have never lost his body.

But after Mom died, it felt like Ishvala had forsaken them. They’d lost their home and their land and their culture.

And their parents. Hohenheim had left not long after they’d relocated to Resembool, and suddenly,  Edward and Alphonse had gone from having everything to only having each other. Although Edward knew that many Ishvalans had cherished their faith after the Ishvalan War, he’d done the opposite.

But alchemy was no longer Edward’s domain, and the less he dwelled on it, the happier he was.

Not that he regretted exchanging his alchemy for Alphonse. He’d have given up alchemy a million times to save Al. Hell, he’d have given up his own body!

But losing his alchemy was still a hole in Edward’s heart. He’d cherished alchemy for nearly his whole life, and it had been a part of him, something that had always come as naturally as breathing. Learning to live without it was harder than he’d have guessed.

But he couldn’t tell Al, because he’d just feel guilty. How could he explain that, even if it was a miniscule price to pay in return for Alphonse’s return, it was still a price to Edward?

The way Edward defined himself had changed over the years. He’d lost his Ishvalan life, and he’d become an Amestrian alchemist. But now he had to redefine himself again, and he didn’t know who he was anymore. He wasn’t a State Alchemist. He wasn’t an automail engineer like Winry. He was just a normal guy now, who couldn’t even defend himself from a single attacker.

His hands clawed at the sand beneath him. His right knee had gone numb, but he didn’t reposition himself.

It was still unbelievable that he was really here, sitting in the _Zikkaron_ that he’d heard about as a child. Yet, when he’d pictured this moment, he’d always imagined his mother’s family crowded beside him, huddled around the plot unsuited for so many bodies. He’d imagined his younger cousin, Prajin, wiggling through the crowd’s legs, so he could stand at the front. And Edward would be trapped at the back of the pack, but maybe Uncle Ekbal would hoist him onto his shoulders, so he could see his grandparents performing a service at the very front by the monument itself.  

But Edward was here without them, and now they were on the wrong side of the memorial. They’d been killed, some by the hands of Amestrians he’d worked with every day in the military.

So Edward and Alphonse were the only remnants enduring of their once large _Vaidya_ clan.

Despite his arguments that Amestris and Ishval had to get along and that they weren’t so different, he believed that inside his own body, his Amestrian side and his Ishvalan side were irreconcilable. And whatever Madam Abra said, the moment he came clean about his past was the moment he’d have to meld them together and deal with the unpleasant consequences.

That by working in the military, he’d betrayed his family, and then everyone would know he really was a _Z’hoom_ , a contamination of both Amestris and Ishval.

No one really understood, not even Alphonse, who didn’t carry the memories of Ishval that he did. Of running through the streets with their little gang: his young cousins, the twins that lived next door, and Alphonse. Of the stew his aunt would make whenever his mom had to go out of town.

Of the flower festival every spring, which would turn their quiet desert town into an explosion of color and tourists, as the budding blossoms uncoiled themselves for only a few weeks a year. And when they did, their sweet scent was inescapable, clinging to Edward’s clothes and hair like a fresh perfume. And, after it was over, his grandmother would make warm baked treats with the fallen flowers, and everyone would know that the dry season was coming.  

These memories were seared into his skull, even though he’d been young when they fled Ishval.

Edward didn’t know how long he kneeled there on the cold sand. The stars twinkled above him, keeping the engraving on the monument bathed in light. When he finally rose, his body was numb. He shook himself a few times, and noticed the smallest peak of sun over the horizon.

He’d been out all night. He hadn’t meant to.

When he slipped through the stone gates guarding the _Zikkaron,_ like he had many times before, he removed the scarf from his head and let it rest on his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” a voice cried out. Edward whipped his head toward the sound, and his heart sunk. There were four approaching figures: Scar, Major Miles, Elder Shan, and Elder Vikram.

Scar was the one who yelled, and his face, even shrouded in shadow, was distorted in rage. Elder Shan patted Scar on his shoulder, but there was no softening in her gaze as she turned to Edward.

“Grand Cleric Heridas told us you visited the _Zikkaron_ tonight,” she said. “Perhaps you do not understand Ishvalan customs, but it can be construed as… distasteful for Ishvalans not related by blood of the ancient families to visit, never mind non-Ishvalans.”

“Of course,” Edward easily agreed, glad she’d already given him an excuse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He tried to make himself look sheepish.

“It’s highly disrespectful for you to have done that. If someone saw you, you could have derailed the entire Ishvalan Accords,” Elder Vikram said with a sneer. Edward meekly nodded, hoping to escape this meeting with just a small scolding.

He’d have to come back, of course. It was the one place he could feel whole. The only place he could feel like his two sides weren’t raging against each other. Like he was not _Z’hoom_ , but just Edward Elric, born of Ishvalan Trisha Vaidya and Xerxian Van Hohenheim.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” Edward said, and he caught Miles raising an eyebrow at him. True to his word though, Miles said nothing about Edward’s heritage, for which he was grateful.

“You were thoughtless,” Scar said. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?”

“Don’t say anything about my mother.” Edward’s eyes flashed, and his vision blurred.

“You just walk into this memorial to Ishvalans without a second thought? You think that just because you’re Amestrian, all of Ishval is yours for the taking?”

“Cleric Heridas!” Elder Shan shouted.

“You know nothing about my family. Do not presume to know otherwise,” Edward forced out, keeping his voice calm. He was proud of himself for his composure thus far. He’d dealt with worse. He wasn’t going to lose it over something so stupid.  

“How would you like it if someone went trampling through your sacred place? Most of the families in there are dead because of Amestrians like you.”

There was nothing Edward could say that wouldn’t condemn him further. So he clenched his teeth together, knowing if he opened his mouth, he’d say something he’d regret. But he couldn’t stop his hands from balling into tight fists.

Luckily, Miles interrupted Scar’s rant.

“It’s dangerous for you to be out alone, especially with your mysterious attacker,” he said, eyeing Edward carefully.

“I needed to think,” Edward said.

“Of course, this must be _so_ stressful for you,” Elder Vikram said. “You have _so_ much on the line.”

Edward said nothing.

“He made a mistake. It happens. Everyone calm down,” Elder Shan said, clanking her cane against the stone gate. “Let’s just go back to the inn before anyone thinks we’ve run off.”

They all conceded, and Edward walked back in step with Elder Shan. She huddled over her cane, her back bent forward, but she was able to move quickly.

“Their nerves are on edge, young Edward,” she said. “Don’t tempt them into doing something they’d regret.”

Edward nodded, his fingernails still digging into his palms. He was tired of biting back the truth, and it never got easier.

“It’s like they’re entitled,” Elder Vikram said to Scar. Snippets of their conversation carried over to Edward. “Look at Ariyn Fitzgerald. I don’t think she’d recognize hard work if it hit her in the head.”

“Progress will be made,” Scar said. Despite his harsh words to Edward earlier, he’d lost the tension in his shoulders and spoke pleasantly.

“Sure, but it doesn’t help if one of our own keeps working for _Them_.” He lowered his voice, but Edward (and everyone else) still caught it. He continued, oblivious to his volume. “But that’s what you get when you invite a _Z’hoom_ , I guess.”

Miles froze mid-step.

Edward did the same, but only for a moment.

He saw red.

“No!” Miles shouted, grabbing Edward, who’d raised his fist and started toward the Elder. “No.”

Edward struggled against Miles’ arms, “Let go of me!”

The others had noticed the ruckus, and though neither Scar nor Elder Shan seemed comfortable with what Elder Vikram had said, they stared at Edward. Like _HE_ was the crazy one.

“Let me go!” Edward shouted.

“Calm down before you do something you’ll regret,” Miles said evenly, and Edward wanted to shake him.

Edward finally stopped struggling, and Miles released him from his grasp.

“Do. Not. Use. That. Word,” Edward said, marching over to Elder Vikram, ignoring Miles’ sigh.

“You know nothing of Ishvalan culture. Do not lecture me, boy,” he said, pulling himself up to his full height, which was eye-level with Edward.

“Maybe, but I know about respect, and I’ve lost all of what I had for you.”

“If you hadn’t gone into the _Zikkaron_ …” Elder Vikram shook his head. “ **Your ancestors must be sad they got stuck with dirt like you**.” He muttered the last part in Ishvalan.

“ **Just because you experienced loss, doesn’t mean you get to be such a pretentious asshole,”** Edward shot back.

For a moment, he didn’t realize what he’d done, but at Elder Vikram’s shocked expression, he suddenly realized he’d replied in Ishvalan.

Well, this was going well.

“ **You speak Ishvalan**?” Elder Shan asked.

“ **A little** ,” Edward said. But the jig was up. He hadn’t sounded like a novice, and he could feel the lack of sleep crash upon him. The dawn was still young, but every moment grew brighter with the rising sun.  

“You’re certainly full of surprises,” Elder Shan said with a smile, but Elder Vikram was less than impressed.

“ **Just because you know a little Ishvalan doesn’t mean that excuses what you did tonight. If anything it makes it worse! If you know anything about Ishval, you should have known better!”**

**“Calm down, Elder Vikram,”** Scar said. “ **It was an innocent mistake, right?”**

**“Yes,”** Edward said. Miles watched the proceedings blankly, and Edward remembered that Miles’ Ishvalan comprehension was limited.  

“ **You know nothing about the pain that Ishvalans go through every day,”** Elder Vikram said, eyes flashing. He stepped closer. “ **We, who have lost everything and still must make amends with our attackers if we want to survive. The humiliation and defeat we must endure to recreate the country you people destroyed. You can’t imagine it!**

**“Ishvala has been desecrated because of _Amestrians-”_** he spat it like it was a curse “- **like you. Don’t talk to me about pain! My family barely escaped with their lives.”**

Edward knew that it was foolish.

That he was angry and therefore irrational.

He _knew_ all of that.

But his mouth spoke faster than his brain, and the words came tumbling out before he could stop them.

**“I am from the Southern region, Elder! I lived it! Wow, it must have been _so_ hard for you, fleeing Ishval with your family! Most of my family was not so lucky!  Don’t you DARE tell me I don’t know what it is like. Ishval is not just for people YOU think are proper Ishvalans!”**

 “What?” Scar said, and Edward felt like he was in a dream. “You’re Ishvalan?” The sun was nearly up now, and in the budding light, Edward could see every minute reaction on their faces. Every flicker of disbelief and shock, and it somehow made him angrier. 

“Yes…. half. My mom was as Ishvalan as any of you.” Fury still coursed through his veins, but his brain was beginning to catch up to what he’d blurted out thoughtlessly. 

“You’re Ishvalan?” Scar asked again.

“You heard me,” Edward said, crossing his arms across his chest.

“That’s impossible,” he said.

Edward heard the Elders muttering to each other, and he wanted to sink into the sand. But it was too late to take it back now, and darn it if he was going to show anyone how much he wished he’d stayed silent.  

“And why is that?” Edward asked.  

“You’re… Amestrian,” he said. He gestured to Edward’s skin and hair. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

Scar furrowed his brows, “There’s no way. It’s impossible.”

“Just because I didn’t run around murdering State Alchemists, doesn’t mean I’m not Ishvalan,” Edward said. “We’re not all psychopaths.”

Despite his cutting words, he really wasn’t that angry at Scar.

The tumultuous churning in his gut came from Elder Vikram. But now that he’d announced it, what was there to lose?

“Is there something you want to say to my face then? About my ancestry.” He stomped up beside Elder Vikram and searched his red eyes for a glimmer of emotion, but was disappointed to find them lacking.

“If you don’t live like an Ishvalan, you are not Ishvalan,” Elder Vikram said with a tight-lipped smile.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there aren’t many Ishvalans around,” Edward said, gesturing to the town. “If I were you, I might not spend all of my time ostracizing the ones that you’ve already got.”

“Stop taking your anger out on your allies, Elder,” Miles said, stepping forward for the first time. “Or you might find yourself with none.”

Edward’s eyes swept from Miles to the Elders to Scar. Everyone stared back at Edward. Elder Shan looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time.

“Everyone needs to calm down before we destroy Ishval ourselves and disgrace Ishvala even further,” Elder Shan said firmly. “Major Miles, Cleric Heridas, escort Edward back to the inn. Vikram, I need to visit the temple: accompany me.”

This wasn’t a suggestion but an order, and although Elder Vikram shuffled his feet, he followed Elder Shan in the opposite direction of the inn, shooting Edward a glare as he passed.

Which left Edward, Miles, and Scar standing in the quiet street corner. It was still too early for many people to be out, so their walk back was undisturbed.

At first, they were silent. Now away from Elder Vikram, Edward cursed himself for letting his anger best him. Again. It didn’t matter how often his anger led to trouble, there was nothing he could do about it. When it overwhelmed him like that, the world blurred and his heartbeat shook in his ears. He was as helpless as he’d been when the kids in school made fun of Al so many years ago. Consequences be damned. 

But the consequences had only just begun.

“Elder Vikram is a real-” Edward began.

“Don’t say something you’ll regret,” Miles interrupted.

“Trust me, I won’t regret it,” he muttered but didn’t finish his expletive-laden thoughts.

“The Elder is old and unused to changes,” Scar said. “He wants the old Ishval back, without the… influence of Amestris.”

“And what do you think then?” Edward asked, trying not to sound argumentative.

“I wish for the Ishval I remember, but I don’t delude myself into believing that it will ever return. Not that Ishval can’t be great again, but you’re right. Ishval will never be the same.

“And I also think you have to learn to get along with Elder Vikram. The last thing we need is another squabble.” Scar sent a pointed look Edward’s way.

“He started it!” Edward said, not caring if he sounded childish.

“You didn’t strike me as someone who’d fall apart when they were insulted,” Miles said neutrally. Which made Edward madder.

“It’s… impressive that you are unaffected by Elder Vikram’s words,” Edward said. “I don’t know how you could stand it.”

Edward looked down at his feet, pausing to gather his thoughts.

“It’s just that he makes me so mad! It’s like… he’s as old as time itself, and he thinks he can just waltz around because he’s lived a thousand years? That he can say whatever he wants because he’s old? I don’t want to just swallow my pride because he thinks that his way is the only way to be a true Ishvalan.” His words jumbled together as his anger returned.

“Elder Shan is older,” Miles said with a smile.

“Yeah, but she doesn’t act like she’s the divine spirit of Ishvala.”

“Edward?” Scar asked. The road back to the inn was thankfully deserted, and the only noise was the wind rustling the sand.

“Hm.”

“Were you really born in Ishval?”

He hadn’t told Miles that, but then again, Miles hadn’t asked directly like this. He’d already confessed as much when he was yelling at the Elder, so there was no point in hiding now.  

“Yes.”

“In the Southern region?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn,” Scar said. “Not many people survived that. You’re tougher than you look, kid.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!” Edward said. Scar stopped walking, so Miles and Edward paused too.

“You continue to surprise me, Edward Elric.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Edward said, waving off Scar’s words and strutting forward.

“What town were you from?” Scar asked.

“ _Netanya_ ,” he said, images of the quaint town flashing across his mind. The cobblestone path that led up to their home. His grandparents’ house just down the road that always smelled like cinnamon. The fresh fried treats the vendors would sneak him and Al for free when they were closing for the day.

“A beautiful city,” Scar said.

“Did you ever go?” Edward asked.

“A few times for the local flower festival. Before you were born, I’m sure,” he said, and it struck Edward that he was having a normal conversation with Scar. The man who’d killed the Rockbells and had almost killed him on multiple occasions. But when Edward spoke with him, it wasn’t like talking to the Scar he’d fought in East City. This man was lighter, freer from the burden of revenge. He didn’t smile much, but he still had a warmth that reminded Edward of one of his mother’s brothers.

And he was someone who’d been to _Netanya_ , another person alive who held the memories of the beautiful city he remembered. That was a blessing in and of itself.

He looked up to Scar, who was peering down at him slightly concerned.

“Sorry, I zoned out I guess,” Edward said. “Lost in memories.”

“That’s understandable,” Scar said. Miles was silent, because, as much as he understood, he carried no such Ishvalan past.

“Where are you from?” Edward asked.

“I was born in the Kanda region, but I traveled a lot in my youth.”

“You were young once?” Edward asked, smirking.

“A long time ago,” Scar said.

“A very long time ago,” Edward corrected.

Scar smiled, making his x-shaped scar stretch across his forehead, “To you, it must seem.”

They were nearly back to the inn, and Edward was glad to finally escape this conversation. And to confess to Alphonse and Winry what had occurred. But as the familiar illuminated exterior of the inn welcomed them from down the road, Scar stopped again.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Scar said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You’re from the Southern region,” Scar said. “ _Netanya_. The State Alchemists devastated the South; _Mustang_ devastated the South.” He turned away from Edward. “You worked under the man who destroyed your country, most likely your town. His hands could have killed your friends, and you served him.”

He didn’t say it cruelly, but Scar didn’t need to remind Edward of those things.

“Does that make me a traitor to Ishval?” Edward asked.

“No more than I am,” Miles said. “You just asked me how I dealt with getting called _Z’hoom_. It’s the same way you dealt with working under Mustang. You think it would be impossible and it would be painful, but you just wake up and do it.”

Miles smiled to Edward, “You are a better man than you think.”

Luckily, Edward didn’t have to respond, because just then, Hawkeye swung the inn’s door open.

“They’re right here!” she yelled out. She lowered her voice towards Edward. “You’ve caused quite a stir.”

At some point around dawn, they’d realized that Edward and the entire Ishvalan delegation had vanished. People had assumed one horrible thing after another and rumors had spread, so when Edward walked into the lounge, the boy who worked there, Gilad, jumped up from his stool.

“We thought you were dead!” Gilad announced, and he threw his arms around Edward’s legs. Edward patted his head awkwardly. Havoc shot Edward a sheepish grin, who didn’t know how to respond.

“Cleric Heridas and I were just taking Edward to the old temple,” Miles said. “No one else was awake yet. We thought we’d be back before dawn.”

Miles’ face was emotionless, per usual, and after some grumbling from the others, they begrudgingly accepted it. When Edward slipped upstairs, he was subject to a lecture from Al and Winry about leaving without a word, but before he could tell them about what had happened, they heard a knocking on their door.

Edward opened it, revealing Scar and Miles, who pushed Edward aside and strode in without so much as an invitation.

“What are you doing here, Major Miles?” Winry asked.

“Your unique heritage may be the focal point of the mysterious attacker,” Scar said without introduction.

“What?” Al said, and Edward hid behind Miles.

“Cleric Heridas knows,” Al said blankly.

“Actually the entire Ishvalan delegation knows,” Scar said.

“You didn’t even talk with me!” Alphonse said, his anger seemingly directed at Miles, because Edward was still hiding behind him. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

Edward peeked his head out, “It kinda just… happened, Al. Sorry.”

Al immediately brightened.

“That’s all right, Brother, I hate lying to people.” Al clapped his hands together. “Okay, what now?”

“ **Do you speak Ishvalan too?”** Scar asked Alphonse.

There was a pause.

“ **Not well,”** Alphonse said with a frown. “ **I want to….um… -”**

**“Practice?”** Edward supplied.

“ **Yeah, that,”** Alphonse said.

“You can’t keep this from the others now,” Miles said. “You are in danger.”

“Maybe,” Edward said.

“Yeah, Miles is well-known for being mixed, so why couldn’t they just be referring to him?” Al said.

“But it wasn’t my train that they attacked,” Miles said, sending a piercing stare first to Edward, and then to Alphonse. “You are in serious danger, and these secrets could get all of us killed.”

 “This isn’t up to a committee. This is our life,” Edward said. “It’s not your place to demand we tell people-”

“This isn’t ‘people.’ This is just Mustang and his men. That’s it,” Miles said firmly. “It’s not like I’m asking you to tell Ariyn Fitzgerald. It’s just so everyone here is on the same page.”

“I don’t see how Edward and Al’s Ishvalan heritage is relevant to any of this,” Winry said, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “None of you can figure out what the attacker’s next move is going to be. So yeah, it’s dangerous, but it doesn’t matter who knows what. It’s up to them.”

Scar groaned.

“What do you think, then?” Miles asked Scar.

“Despite my best judgment, it’s not our place to reveal their secrets,” Scar said slowly. “Even if we may not agree with their choice.”

“Fine,” Miles said. “So be it. But the moment we get any more information that you or your brother are the targets of the attacks, I will tell them myself.” With that, Miles withdrew, and Scar gave an apologetic glance before following behind.

Edward plopped onto the bed and closed his eyes, “This stinks.”

“Why?” Al asked. “Is it so bad that they know? They were pretty cool about it. Actually, I think that’s the nicest I’ve ever seen Scar.”

Alphonse laid down next to Edward, and, with a shrug, Winry laid down onto his other side.

“Maybe it’s not a big deal,” Alphonse said, all of them now staring at the ceiling. “Brother, maybe this isn’t something we have to carry around any longer.”

“Maybe,” Edward said blankly. “We have to carry around the War forever though.”

“So does everyone else here,” Al said. “They seem fine.”

“Fine?” Edward asked. “Are you joking?”

“Fine is relative,” Winry chimed in. “Lying right here with you two dorks makes me feel happy, but there will always be a piece of me that can’t get over my parent’s deaths.”

“There’s only one thing to do then,” Al said, propping himself up onto his elbows. “We have to restore Ishval. That’s the only way I could live with myself.”

“You’re right,” Winry said. “I know I’m not Ishvalan, but… I want to keep helping people here, keep giving people automail and repairing what I can. It’s not much, but it’s something, right?”

“It’s more than something, Winry,” Edward said. “It’s amazing. You’re kind of amazing.”

Edward didn’t need to turn to know Winry was blushing.

They rested in an easy silence, and Alphonse flipped back over, so they watched their bare ceiling again. The faint murmur of discussion filtered in through the crack in the floorboards.

“I want to help Ishval too,” Edward said. “I have to. Is it enough? To want to help?”

“It’s a start,” Winry said, and she sat up, swishing her hair back into place.

“The moment we go out as publically Ishvalan is the moment we lose the ability to be an Amestrian supporter of Ishval,” Edward said.

“We don’t have to decide everything right now, Brother,” Alphonse said.

“You’re right,” Edward said, before smirking. “Wanna sneak out of here? We could go exploring?”

Winry rolled her eyes, “Is that really the best idea? Didn’t that get you in trouble literally this morning?”

“Yeah, but I can’t be the only stir-crazy person here,” Edward said. “Let’s go. It’ll be fun.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Alphonse, what do you think?” Edward asked.

“Sorry, but I’m with Winry on this one,” he said, biting his lip. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Sure you say that with Winry here,” Edward muttered but not out of any real spite.

Although the day was nearly done, Abra’s chores hadn’t ended. So when they checked in on what was happening downstairs, they found Abra peeling potatoes in the back of the kitchen. Although Edward was curious as to what the delegation was discussing, he needed a break away from it all. And unlike most of the members, Edward had more leeway to come and go as he pleased, because he wasn’t an “official” member of the Ishvalan Accords.

“Come on, dears, don’t be shy,” Abra said, as soon as she caught sight of them. She insisted they take over for her, which was how Edward ended up covered in potato skins and smelling vaguely starchy.

Abra, meanwhile, began creating a spice mixture for the food, and Edward couldn’t help but smile.

“ **Smells like home,”** he said, and at Winry’s confused face, he quickly translated.

“I imagine there aren’t many Ishvalan restaurants in Central,” Abra said, and Edward shook his head.

“None.”

“I don’t think there are many in all of Amestris,” she said, taking a whiff of an unmarked bag. She nodded, adding a bit of it into the bowl, which was full of thinly ground seasonings of a variety of bright colors.  “They all closed during the War. I mean the real stuff, not the Amestrian crap.”

“What are you making?” a rough voice asked from the doorway. Elder Vikram.

“Just some potatoes,” Abra said, and Edward ignored him, as though that would mitigate Edward’s already burgeoning anger. 

“I see,” Elder Vikram said. Edward could feel his eyes on them, but he refused to even acknowledge him. Elder Vikram said nothing more, marching back out of the kitchen as though Edward and the others weren’t even there. Edward let out a breath.  

“He’ll come around eventually,” Abra said.

“How’d you know?” Al asked. “About everything.”

Abra leaned forward and lowered her voice, “It’s because I know everything, dear.” She snickered into her palms.  

“Or I told her,” Miles said, as he strode into the room, Scar a step behind. “Do you need help?”

“No, no, I’m being assisted by some lovely little helpers; don’t worry,” Abra said.

It was then that Mustang returned, followed by the rest of his team. The room went silent upon their entrance.

“I just got off the phone with the Fuhrer,” he said. The phone service wasn’t good in Ishval yet, so Mustang was forced to hike back to the train station for the nearest telephone. “He’s pleased with the progress, but he wants to send in a security team because of the attack yesterday.”

Just what Edward wanted. People to stop him from coming and going when he wished. But, then again, he’d been caught now by both Miles and the other Ishvalans, so maybe he was just overestimating his ability to be sneaky.  

“You turned him down, I hope,” Scar said, and Mustang answered with a curt nod.

“His heart’s in the right place,” Hawkeye said slowly. “But we don’t need to escalate the situation.”

“Besides,” Scar said. “We have the Flame Alchemist. How could anything happen?”

His sarcasm was biting, but Mustang didn’t rise to the bait. That they were having a civilized discussion in an Ishvalan inn’s kitchen was bizarre to Edward suddenly, and he couldn’t have imagined this moment a few years ago.

“If anything goes wrong, everything could be ruined. Be extra careful,” Mustang said, narrowing his eyes.

But then Abra laughed, which ruined the dramatics of the moment.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, leaning over and resting her hands on her knees, her shoulders still shaking from laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Winry asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” she said, refusing to hear another word about it. It wasn’t until the area had cleared out, and it was just Edward and Abra, that she would say anything.

“I’ve seen much worse than this little nonsense with the smoke before, and I will probably see much worse than this again, and General Mustang has seen his fair share of atrocities too. But…” she trailed off.

“But?” Edward asked.

“But Mustang’s frazzled,” she said. “He cares about these Accords, perhaps more than his own life. And for him to sink so low, it’s just amusing to me. If he’d had this revelation during the War, maybe nothing would change, but maybe it would. But he wouldn’t have so much blood on his hands.” She paused for a moment. “At least he doesn’t try and rewrite the past.”

Abra’s words, like they often were, both made complete sense and were completely confusing. But Edward could use her insight, so even though she’d heard the story from Miles, he told Abra all that had happened that day. She listened intently, but said nothing until he finished.

“Did the world end, now that people know?” Abra asked.

“No,” Edward reluctantly answered.

“Then what are the consequences of telling other people? I shouldn’t say anything, and it is your business,” she said. “But your secret, well, you may hold a card greater than yourself, and that is something special.”

“How do I know when to use it?” Edward asked.

“You don’t. That’s how a game of chance works. If you save a trump card for the right moment, you will win, but if you use it too early or too late, it may be useless. We all may be useless in this world, but when the right moments come at the right time, we act. You will know what to do when it happens.”

She smiled and Edward returned it, feeling more hopeful than he had all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading!


	7. Alphonse Elric I

Chapter 7: Alphonse Elric I

Alphonse was trying to convince Edward to get into bed after his previously sleepless night. And though Al had enlisted Winry’s assistance, neither of them were having much success.

“Sleep is for the weak. It’s only 9,” Edward said. They were back in their room; the candlelight was low, but the window remained open, so the stars illuminated the far corners of the bed.

“You’ve had a long day, Brother,” Al said, as patiently as he could.

But it was no use. Edward continued talking like Al hadn’t said anything.

“Do you think I did the right thing?” Edward asked. “Not telling the Ishvalans about the _Zikkaron?”_

Alphonse had learned many years ago that Edward was more honest, especially about his own vulnerabilities, when he was exhausted. (Which he had _never_ exploited before. Honest.)

“It doesn’t matter really,” Edward continued, not pausing for an answer. “It’s just a stupid tradition.” And then Edward yawned and griped to Winry about not being tired. 

“Sure you’re not,” Winry said, sharing an exasperated eye roll with Alphonse. “But from the way you were talking before, it doesn’t sound like it’s just a stupid tradition, not to some people.”

“It is a big deal,” Alphonse chimed in. “It’s like… Ishvalan nobility. That’s what Edward told me when we were little.”

“Maybe I exaggerated a bit, because it sounded more impressive,” Edward said, yawning again. “It honestly wasn’t a big deal to our family. It’s not like we were the Armstrongs or whatever. And it didn’t really matter to our lives. At all.”

“But now…?” Alphonse asked.

“If there aren’t any other members of the _Vaidya_ family alive, I guess that means…”

“It means you’re the head of the family. So what _does_ that mean?”

Edward shrugged, “Not much these days, I guess. It’s just a stupid status thing.” Edward looked off into the distance. “Can you imagine? An Amestrian being the head of an ancient Ishvalan family? People would go mad. Our grand-uncle would come back to life and haunt us forever.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Al said, which was as much of an answer as he could give.

Alphonse’s recollection of Ishval consisted only of recycled people and stories he’d gathered from Edward or Mom. His memories had been dulled with time, which felt supremely unfair. After all, Edward was only a year older! How could Edward list off the names of their aunts with ease, when Al could barely remember how many there were?

“A year is a lot when you’re young,” Winry would say, as gently as she could whenever he’d complain to her about it. It didn’t feel right discussing it with Edward, who was so secretive with his Ishvalan memories, as it was. Well, secretive wasn’t the right word. Rather, Edward would get this pained expression whenever Alphonse mentioned Ishval, so Al didn’t like to pry. 

The only time Edward would open up about Ishval was when he was really sleepy, so when they’d been running around Amestris, trying to restore their bodies, Al would wait until Edward was exhausted, and then he’d casually probe about Ishval, their family, and _Netanya._  

They had no pictures of their family, no belongings or family heirlooms. All they had were memories, and Al didn’t have those either.  

Al’s earliest memory was their escape from Ishval. Of their parents, Ed, and Al in a car, fleeing from the War, but they’d had been stopped by a blockade of Amestrian soldiers. The details were hazy, and he hadn’t understood what was happening at the time. But Al would never forget the terror surging through his tiny body, as a dark-haired man leaned into their father. They discussed payment in low voices, before Edward and Alphonse were forced to get out of the car. The dark-haired soldier inspected them for a moment and when he was properly assured they weren’t Ishvalan, they fled back into the vehicle, and their father didn’t stop driving until they’d arrived in Resembool. It was Al’s first recollection of terror, intertwined with the horrors of the War.

When Edward finally gave in and got into bed, he conked out immediately, but not before Alphonse had coaxed a few new details out of Edward, about the mischief they used to make with their young cousins in their old city of _Netanya._

Winry was stubborn enough to stay awake past Edward, but she fell asleep as soon as Edward started snoring.

Which left Alphonse awake alone.

And he was strangely restless. Since he’d gotten his body back, Al usually slept as much as possible, turning in early and waking up late, and it felt amazing. Not just physically and emotionally, but he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed dreaming.  

And a lucky side effect to his excessive sleeping habits was that he rarely saw his most loathsome hours on the clock.

 1 a.m. 2 a.m. 3 a.m. 4 a.m. The hours between Edward falling asleep and the dawn had always been the most painful, when there were no distractions from his unfeeling solitary confinement. It was the time of day that let painful thoughts fester and somehow, even the most hopeful of people could find themselves lost.

Alphonse had no reason to fear the wee hours of the morning anymore. He could touch and taste and feel again, and not even his most vivid nightmares could bring the cruel reality of that unfeeling prison back to life. But Alphonse still avoided the darkest hours of night regardless.

Which was why it was so strange that it was past midnight and Al was awake, alone with his thoughts, like he’d been for so many years.

It was almost 2 a.m. now, and although he didn’t feel tired, Alphonse slipped into bed beside Edward anyway, and much to his surprise, he fell asleep immediately, dreaming of dozens of tanned children with white hair and red eyes, all smiling and laughing and chasing each other.

When Alphonse and Edward saw the Elders the next morning, they didn’t know how they were going to react, given Elder Vikram’s lukewarm reception yesterday. Even if it made their life more difficult, Alphonse was glad that their Ishvalan roots were known to the Ishvalans. With so few Ishvalans left, remaining hidden had felt wrong.

Elder Shan strode over to the Elrics and leaned in close, “Ignore Elder Vikram. An Ishvalan is an Ishvalan. There’s nothing anyone can do to take that away.”

“Yes, Elder,” they replied, and Al noticed a pep in Edward’s step after that.

Although the man responsible for the train station attack and the smoke bombing at the inn still roamed free, enough time had passed that the delegation was getting antsy. The Ishvalans and Amestrians alike had spent so long holed up in Abra’s inn debating and arguing, that interacting with real people outside of that dim back room might help them from going stir-crazy indoors.

Honestly, Al didn’t pay much attention to what the delegation was up to. He was just glad to hitch a ride to visit more of Kedesh. After all, wasn’t it safer in a larger group? 

At least that was what he and Edward argued to Major Miles, who didn’t want them to go.

“It’s dangerous, especially for you two.” Miles sent them a pointed look. (Miles nagged more than Granny did, not that Al would have admitted it to either person’s face.)

“So is staying here! We’re defenseless just waiting around in the inn,” Edward said.

This continued back and forth until Havoc happened to walk into their argument in the kitchen, and everyone quieted immediately.

“Don’t let me interrupt anything,” Havoc said and pivoted out, but Miles sighed, pinched the ridge of his nose, and acquiesced.

Which left Alphonse, Winry, and Edward accompanying the delegation as they strolled through Kedesh, meeting people in the town and surveying some of the finer details of the progress so far.

However, Alphonse had never faced such hostility from Ishvalans before. When Winry, Edward, and Al had walked through the Ishvalan streets, even if they did look Amestrian, they’d been mostly glanced over. It was a bit unusual to see Amestrians in Ishval, but nothing that made anyone look twice.

But as he travelled amongst the Ishvalan Accords’ delegation, it was the complete opposite. He felt like an eyesore to the Ishvalan environment, surrounded by the bright blue Amestrian uniforms, signaling like a beacon to the Ishvalans to stay away. Or at least to stare unabashedly. It made Alphonse’s skin crawl. Though he’d been the subject of his fair share of stares when he had been trapped in his armor, those had been more from curiosity than suspicion and hatred. Alphonse was forced to wonder what kinds of memories these Ishvalans associated with Amestrian soldiers.

They toured the new construction sites quickly, and despite Alphonse’s fascination with Kedesh, listening to lectures on building layouts was terribly boring. He spotted a stray cat out of the corner of his eye.

Edward was going to kill him.

But Alphonse didn’t care. While some random Ishvalan guy was blabbering on about the type of stones they used, Al snuck away, ducking behind a distracted Ishvalan couple.

“Here kitty kitty,” Al said quietly, hunching over and reaching out his hand as a peace offering to the cat. It was actually a very fat cat, he realized as he got closer. But its chubby body was partially camouflaged against the sand beneath it. (It was probably very advantageous for a cat to be sand-colored here.)

The cat was not interested in Alphonse, instead focusing on licking its adorable little paws. Al could watch cats all day. Even only at a distance.

“What are you doing?” Ariyn Fitzgerald asked, and at the approaching footsteps, the cat darted away, suddenly disappearing amongst the sand.

“Nothing,” Alphonse said. “Just trying to woo a cat.”

Ariyn watched Al search the vicinity for any sign of the cat, but the feline was gone, so Al straightened.

“We should get back,” Al said, and Ariyn Fitzgerald nodded. Why Ariyn Fitzgerald had followed him, Alphonse had no idea. But he didn’t spend much time dwelling on it either. It’s not like the deep details of architecture were thrilling to anyone but architects. (Much like alchemy and alchemists.)

They returned to where the architect had been lecturing just a few minutes before, but the entire group had vanished.  

“Great. Where did they disappear off to?” Ariyn Fitzgerald muttered, and Alphonse promised her that he knew where they were heading. (Which he did. It just felt like he was lying because Ariyn made him a little nervous.)

Alphonse led the way towards the temple, but his steps were slow. Alphonse because he was trying to absorb every tiny detail of Ishval into his mind, from the little kids chasing each other in circles in some kind of childhood game, to a group of young women, all hovering around a patchwork quilt that was as large as Alphonse. Community was a key of Ishvalan, evident everywhere Alphonse turned.

Ariyn Fitzgerald probably didn’t linger with a longing to absorb every detail like Al did, but regardless, she kept pace with Alphonse, as they strolled towards the temple side-by-side.

“Why are you in Ishval?” she asked, watching her feet as they walked. Her heels sunk into the sand as she stepped, so she had to wiggle her ankles every few paces to remove the accumulation of grit.

“I’m from Resembool,” he said. “We were pretty affected by the War.”

“I heard,” she said. “You were attacked by the Ishvalans during the War, weren’t you? If I recall correctly, the bombings in Resembool caused a lot of damage. I was in the Parliament then.”

“Yeah,” Al said, his eyes finding his missing cat lounging on a distant roof, its tail hanging over the edge. He reluctantly pulled his mind away from the cat and towards Ariyn Fitzgerald, who was watching his reactions intently. “Resembool never really recovered, and I kept thinking that if Resembool was so affected by just those bombings, Ishval must be so devastated by everything that happened!”

Assuming Al had remembered this section of Kedesh correctly, Al knew that the temple wasn’t too far now. He hoped Edward hadn’t noticed his absence, because although Alphonse could take care of himself, Al was the younger sibling and Edward worried. Not that Edward would ever say anything, but Al could tell.  

“You’re not angry at Ishval for the bombings? You don’t want revenge?” she asked quietly.

Alphonse shrugged, “I’m sure some people in Resembool do. But desperation can provoke uncharacteristic acts of violence. I’m not mad.”

“And didn’t that man Scar try to kill you and your brother?”

Ariyn Fitzgerald had gotten a sanitized version of Scar (now Grand Cleric Heridas, though Alphonse struggled to disassociate Heridas from Scar) and his misadventures, and Alphonse didn’t know how much she knew.

“In a way,” Al said, trying to describe their relationship with Scar delicately. “But he was upset about the destruction of his people, and we all learned to work together in the end.”

“You’re young and naïve,” she said, but not maliciously. Al noted that, with her dark hair and light skin, she must have been considered beautiful once. After spending time under the Ishvalan sun, she bore light freckles dotting across her cheeks and nose. “How can it be that simple?”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” he said, almost sad to be nearly at the temple. “It’s simple human nature. We have to be tolerant to others in their times of distress.”

Ariyn Fitzgerald didn’t have the opportunity to respond, because as they turned the corner, an ominous crack like thunder boomed everywhere.

A cloud of sand rushed passed, and Alphonse coughed. He covered his eyes with his arm and squinted, but all he could see was dust.

And then the screaming started.

The sand still swirled around them, nipping into his exposed skin, but Alphonse didn’t hesitate. He bolted toward the screaming, heart pounding, fear building. Fighting through the sand storm was difficult, and luckily, not necessary for long, because only a minute later, his visibility returned.

But he almost wished it hadn’t.

He’d followed the screaming, and now he stood outside of the Ishvalan temple. A small, unimpressive building made more unimpressive by the gaping hole, still oozing smoke. And the screaming, which was coming from within.

Without thinking through anything, he rushed through the fracture, terrified of what he would find. He leaped over fallen debris, and inside, the damage was much worse than a measly hole. Mustang and Edward were already there, hovering over an Ishvalan woman kneeling among the wreckage. Her face was stained with ash, tears, and blood, but she paid no mind. She kept wailing.

She was the only one inside, and it was a good thing too, because the main sanctuary of the temple was devastated. Char and sand coated the walls and the ground and pretty much everything else, which were now mostly just piles of rubble. Wooden beams had snapped in half and were balancing precariously over their heads, swaying in an invisible breeze. What must have been pews had partially melted and fused to the floor, and for a moment, Alphonse feared that the woman was stuck in the rubble.

Mustang leaned over the woman, “What happened?”

When she opened her mouth, only hysterics poured out. So she just pointed.

They followed her gaze to the wreckage further into the temple.

Alphonse inched closer towards it, and underneath a shattered column lay a bloodied hand.

A few people had followed them into the temple by now, so Amestrians and Ishvalan bystanders alike began carefully clearing the collapsed vestiges of the temple, afraid of what condition they would find the person underneath. It was too delicate work for alchemy to be any help, so Alphonse could do nothing.

Instead, Al kneeled beside the hysterical woman and patted her on the back. At the human contact, she fell into Alphonse’s embrace and tightly wrapped her arms around his waist.

“It’ll be okay,” Alphonse murmured, knowing it could be a lie. They had to have hope. “It’ll be okay.”

When she’d quieted slightly, Alphonse felt it safe to broach the subject again.

“What happened?” Al asked.

“A bomb.” The woman hiccupped. “Just like before. My baby. My poor baby.”

“Were you two the only ones here?” Al asked.

Another hiccup.

“Yeah. My poor baby. It’s all my fault. I-” Hiccup. “I wanted to come pray. My baby.” The tears started pouring again, and Al comforted her the best he could.

Finally, they were able to lift the fallen rubble off of the boy. His eyes were closed, blood smeared across his arm and cheeks, but the faint rising of his chest proved he was still alive. The woman rushed over to him, but Scar pushed her back, not unkindly.

“We have to get him to a doctor,” he said. “We don’t want to injure him further.”

This made the woman burst into tears again, and she collapsed onto the ground, “My baby!”

The boy was young, maybe only four or five, and of typical Ishvalan appearance. His face was rounded in his youth, and Alphonse realized his arm was twisted the wrong way.

Scar and Miles lifted him out of the temple with care, and they rushed him to the nearest doctor, a shabby establishment just down the road. Alphonse and the woman followed behind. She leaned heavily on Alphonse, which should have been difficult, given the frailty of his body, but under the adrenaline of the moment, it was easy to support her weight as they sped towards the clinic.

The doctor gave no visible reaction to the boy’s appearance, just signaling to Scar and Miles to deposit him towards the back rooms and then return to the lobby.

“The doctor will do the best work in Kedesh,” Scar said to the woman, in a way that was supposed to be comforting. She didn’t acknowledge his words, staring blankly at the door that led towards the back. As though the doctor would return any moment, even though he’d left mere seconds before.

Al cursed himself, wishing he knew the medical alchemy that May had used. Although he’d picked up a few tricks from her, he knew so little of Xingese alchemy that he’d be more a hindrance than anything.  But that didn’t stop him from wishing, over and over, that he could do something. Anything. But all any of them could do now was wait outside the door.  

Although many members of the Ishvalan and Amestrian parties checked in on the fate of the boy, the small office could not hold them all. So the military men went back to the explosion site for more clues, accompanied by Scar. Elder Vikram muttered something about praying and left without a backward glance. Even Elder Shan left too, off to soothe the scared masses which had been gathering in the stretch of road from the clinic to the Ishvalan temple itself. Alphonse could hear the crowds shouting behind the thin walls of the clinic, and he didn’t envy Elder Shan, but she left the office with a narrow smile on her face regardless.  

Everyone seemed to know what to do, which left Edward, Winry, Alphonse, and Ariyn Fitzgerald with the Ishvalan woman, waiting to learn whether this young boy would survive past the day. Ariyn was uncharacteristically silent. She sat on the ground, rocking back and forth, unable to peel her eyes off of the woman. Ariyn seemed to want to say something, but couldn’t bring herself to begin.

“Is that your son?” Winry asked in her most gentle voice.

The woman sniffled and wiped tears away from her cheek, “Yeah.”

“How old is he?” Winry asked.

“Six, just turned last month,” she said. “He’s always been small for his age. I can’t-I can’t-I can’t lose him!” Tears cascaded from the corners of her eyes, and she didn’t bother to clean them.

“You have to have faith,” Alphonse said. “The doctor will do everything he can.”

There were no hospitals in Kedesh. And Al knew that, although the doctor was likely well-trained, the medical facilities were not up to Amestrian standards. Probably not even up to the limited resources they had in Resembool.

All they really could do was pray.

It felt like they sat in the sad waiting room forever. It was windowless and colorless, the epitome of despair. A few broken chairs lay useless in the corner, and all Al could think of was how sad it would be for someone to die here.

‘Don’t think about that,’ he urged himself. He mentally recited all of the Ishvalan prayers he could remember, sure he was making many mistakes, but it was better than doing nothing.

The door creaked open, and the doctor emerged. His face gave away nothing, as he beckoned the woman into the back rooms. She rose with shaking knees and inched towards the doctor. Alphonse feared she would collapse, but she wobbled all the way through to the back, the doctor slamming the door behind her.  

It was quiet. No wailing, which was probably a good sign, but he couldn’t be sure. She could have also fainted from the shock.

“It’s a horrible thing,” Ariyn Fitzgerald said suddenly, staring at an empty space on the wall. “Burying a child. The worst thing a parent can go through.”

Winry gasped.

“Did _you_ \- wait, I’m sorry that’s personal. Never mind. Granny keeps telling me not to pry into other people’s business.” Winry stumbled over her words, and Ariyn treated her to a rare smile.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I did. Two of my children actually.”

“I’m so sorry,” Winry said.

“You lost both of your parents in the Ishvalan Civil War?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t hate the Ishvalans for what they did?” Ariyn asked, looking down at her lap.

Winry’s eyes lit up. “Oh. Your- oh,” she said. She paused. “I don’t hate them. It’s hard to explain.”

Edward, in a surprisingly touching move, wrapped his arm around Winry, and she grasped it as she struggled to find the words.

“My parents showed kindness in the face of disaster, and it’s a testament to their memory that I have been able to move on. It’s not easy, and I wish every day that the war hadn’t happened, but they died doing what they believed in. It’d be easy to hate Ishvalans for their deaths, but I guess… there was a long line of circumstances that led to their deaths and Ishvalans were not the only contributors. I suppose I could hate everyone, but that’s exhausting. Hatred only hurts ourselves.”

Her words were steady and careful, and Alphonse was pleased to see Ariyn nodding.

“You are a remarkable young woman, Miss Rockbell,” she said. “All three of you, actually. I can see why people keep you so close.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Representative,” Alphonse said.

“That I hold onto grudges probably makes me sound petty,” she said, but didn’t elaborate further.

The door swung open at last, and Alphonse rose.

“What-what happened?” he asked the doctor, who stood paused in the doorway, a cigarette in hand.  

“The boy will live,” he said, frowning, which elongated his face into a strangely horse-like shape.  Alphonse let out a breath of relief. “But, I couldn’t save his arm. I’m going to have to amputate it.”

Winry stepped forward, “Doctor, I’m an automail mechanic. May I speak to them about their options? If you haven’t amputated yet, I could make sure the amputation would be suitable for automail. Sir.”

She tacked on the last bit, and Al could see the doctor wasn’t impressed by her infringement onto his territory, but he acquiesced. Complaining to himself in Ishvalan the whole time, but letting her into the back anyway.

Winry’s capability to help other people was amazing. Just like May could. And it wasn’t unlike what General Mustang did or what Brother did. Helping people, regardless of the consequences, with abilities that were almost superhuman. Learning alkahestry never seemed so important.

Alphonse accompanied Ariyn Fitzgerald back to the inn, while Edward waited for Winry. Before they left, they could hear the boy’s screams. Frenzied and hoarse, they were audible all the way down the street. Alphonse blinked back tears.

“Do you hate Ishvalans?”  

The question creeped out of Al’s mouth before he realized it was a horrible thing to ask. They wound through Kedesh, and Alphonse felt relatively sure he was going the right way. As they got closer to the inn, he stole a glance back towards the Kedeshian skyline. The Ishvalan temple was no longer visible from this side of town, a gaping hole where its spires had once stretched towards the heavens. At least the smoke had stopped polluting the cloudless sky.

“Here’s the thing,” Ariyn Fitzgerald said, keeping pace with his slow, steady steps. “I have been in Parliament for a very long time, and in Parliament, no one cares what you think. It’s about who you represent and how you can get what you want.”

“So you think Amestrians hate Ishvalans then?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But someone is going to have to answer for the way these Accords turn out, and it’s not going to be the military.”

Alphonse noticed that she was still avoiding giving a direct answer. And she didn’t blame anyone directly either.

“Why did you join the Parliament?” he asked.

“For the power,” she said, deadpan, before her face erupted into a genuine smile. “That was a joke. I have been known to joke from time to time.

“I wanted to have a say in the future of Amestris. I know we in the Parliament couldn’t do much, but one day in the history books, I wanted my name to be there. That in a military state, there was a civilian voice of reason.” She glanced at Alphonse. “Seems silly, doesn’t it? It was a long time ago.”

“Were you against the Ishvalan War?” he asked.

“I was. Many people were. But it didn’t matter much. It was a long, costly war with no benefit to Amestris, but the military didn’t care,” she said. In the madness of the day, her hair had unfurled from its bun, and Alphonse had never seen her more human than in that waiting room.  

“I think I understand you a little better now,” he said.

“I haven’t done my job as a politician then,” she said smirking. And just like that, the door into Ariyn was closed, but Alphonse didn’t mind it. Everyone had their own methods of coping; it was presumptuous to assume differently.  

When Alphonse and Ariyn arrived back at the inn, they were greeted with a loud discussion about the attacks in Kedesh over the past few weeks.

“This is a copycat,” Scar said. “He is mirroring the way Amestrians attacked Ishvalan cities during the war. Simple as that.”

“In my experience, it doesn’t seem to mirror-” Mustang began, but Scar cut him off by slamming his fist onto the table.

“Not everything is about you, Mustang!” he said, spit spewing from his lips. “This is far before State Alchemists were ever sent in. This is exactly how Kedesh fell at the beginning of the war. The fear and the bombings.”

At Al and Ariyn’s entrance, they silenced, but no one seemed happy to see them. (Alphonse attributed it to Ariyn’s presence.) Al passed on the happy news of the boy’s survival, and at this, Elder Shan smiled.

“Can you really smile at a time like this, Elder?” Elder Vikram asked. “We’re inching closer to war. Again!”

“I hardly need to remind you the importance of a single child’s life, Vikram,” she said coolly. “Besides, every life is important. That he survived is Ishvala’s miracle.”

Elder Vikram said nothing, and as Ariyn sat down onto a couch, ready to join the discussion (much to the visible dismay of the others), Alphonse didn’t know where to go. He hadn’t been part of the negotiations before. Ed was the one who was a member of the military. Alphonse was just his kid brother that tagged along.

“Alphonse, sit next to me,” Hawkeye said, scooching over on the couch, and he fell into the cushion beside hers.

They all acted like he belonged here.

Even though Alphonse disagreed with Edward, he understood his brother’s desire that their past remain hidden. Regardless of what Edward said, Edward cared about General Mustang and Captain Hawkeye and Breda and Havoc and the countless others in the military who would subsequently find out. Alex Armstrong, Falman, Fuery, Sheska, Maria Ross, Denny Brosh.

A very long time ago, they’d been blessed with a large, welcoming family, but then it had been torn away from them, leaving only Edward and Alphonse in its implosion. Edward didn’t want to lose their new family, the one that wasn’t built on blood, but the one that they’d found for themselves.

Of course Edward would never call it a ‘family’ but his affections were the same as Al’s.

Alphonse understood this, but he was becoming less convinced that hiding their Ishvalan side was the best option. After all, if they didn’t accept them as they were, they were no family at all. Right? Sure, it was easier not to tell them, but just because it was easier didn’t mean it was the right choice.

There was a final factor in the equation though.

Espionage.

Since the Ishvalan War had begun, anyone with more than one Ishvalan grandparent wasn’t legally allowed to become a State Alchemist. Of course, it was more a formality, considering not many Ishvalans were alchemists to begin with, but it had never been overturned after the War. Edward serving in the military was legally an act of espionage, as he would be considered a “spy” for Ishval; the penalty was death.

Whenever Alphonse would broach the topic, Edward would laugh it off, but that didn’t stop Alphonse from worrying.

Of course Alphonse understood Ed’s laid-back response, especially considering the latitude the Amestrian government had afforded Scar, an Ishvalan who’d murdered State Alchemists in cold blood. Surely Edward, who had done no harm to anyone, would be exonerated.

And yet, even if Edward was unconcerned, Alphonse couldn’t stop the little voice from whispering in his ear.

_What if?_  

The conversation danced from topic to topic, from Kedesh’s fall during the Ishvalan War and the methodology, to ideas of the next target, to what the public should know, and then back again.  

“There is no need to frighten the public prematurely,” Mustang argued. “We don’t want the consequences of these attacks to outweigh the damages they have inflicted.”

“Everyone in Kedesh knows what’s happening,” Elder Vikram said. His voice was level, but it trembled, like it required all of his energy not to start smashing objects in his hidden rage. “Ignoring it would be the pinnacle of human stupidity. Do you think people will just stay calm now that they saw this attack? This is what happened before. Do you think they will just roll over and prepare to die?”

“Ishval does not trust Amestris,” Scar agreed. “The Fuhrer needs to condemn these attacks or we’re going to have a dangerous situation.”

“Are you threatening the Fuhrer?” Ariyn Fitzgerald asked, injecting herself back into the discussion with a careful smile.

Scar gritted his teeth together, “Don’t you get it? There are no leaders of Ishval right now, Representative. The Ishvalan government was destroyed! We-” He gestured to the Ishvalans “-are here on behalf of all Ishvalans, but we are not their leaders, and no one will listen to us unless they want to. We can talk all we want about the future of Ishval, but no one will surrender their freedom unless they trust us. All of us.”

Scar stared Ariyn down until she looked away.  

“Fine,” Mustang said. “I’ll speak with the Fuhrer now. If he condemns the actions of this madman, then what? We still don’t know anything about him.”

“He’s abiding by the pattern,” Elder Vikram said, his narrow face splotched with patches of maroon. He didn’t raise his voice, but he glared at everyone. Even the other Ishvalans.

“So what does the pattern say is the next move?” Breda asked.

“Bombings in public locations,” he said, his thin lips pressed into a frown. “The goal is chaos, not casualties, though those often accompany them.”

“How much damage can one man do?” Ariyn Fitzgerald asked.

“I don’t think any of us doubt the power of a single alchemist,” Scar said, eyes drawn to Mustang.

“You’re an accomplished alchemist, are you not, General Mustang?” Ariyn said. “Can’t you just blow this man to smithereens, and then we all can go about our lives?”

Mustang pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “I can’t attack anyone I can’t see. I don’t know who he is. It’s not magic; it’s alchemy.”

The impending argument was luckily curtailed by Edward and Winry’s arrival back at the inn. Dark bags pulled underneath Winry’s eyes, and she wobbled as she walked.  Edward steadied her gait, but she found the first open chair and sunk herself into it. Edward didn’t join Alphonse on the couch but leaned against Winry’s chair. Her eyes were already drooping, and Edward patted her awkwardly on the head.

“How’d it go?” Al asked.

“Pretty well, as far as these things go,” Winry said, yawning. “It’ll be a long road for him.”

“Automail?” Ariyn Fitzgerald asked. Winry nodded, her eyes blinking slowly.

“It’ll be months before his wounds will heal enough to install any, but he can begin exercises to make it easier on him. It can be hard on a young body, and it can stunt growth.” Edward shot her a dirty look. “It’ll take years before he’s adjusted. At least this alternative exists. But it’s hard for him; he woke up this morning with four functional limbs, and now, by the end of the day, he only has three.”

No one knew what to say to that, but soon enough, Winry retired early, and Alphonse spent the rest of the night listening to the conversation spinning in circles, as no one agreed on the proper course of action.

“This is a mess,” Havoc said, as they trudged up the stairs to their rooms. Dawn was nearly upon them, and Al could feel his exhaustion. He’d pushed himself too far. Edward lectured as much when they were alone, but Al couldn’t regret it. He didn’t want to feel like a passive player in Ishval anymore. If they were truly Ishvalan, and they were, they had to help, they had to try their best and work their hardest to bring peace back to Ishval.

The following morning, Miles cornered Edward and lectured him about how dangerous it had been to walk back from the clinic with no guards. Alphonse happened to be around the corner, and felt only the tiniest twinge of guilt for eavesdropping.

“You’re not an alchemist anymore!” Miles said.  

Alphonse knew this very well. Honestly, Alphonse was much better equipped to protect Edward than the other way around, but Edward would never let that happen.  

“If you’re going to be so pig-headed about this, Edward, at the very least, carry a gun,” Miles urged, and dug into his holster.

“No,” Edward said, and moments later, Al heard the uneven thumping of Edward stomping away.  

“Your brother is stubborn,” Miles said, and Al jumped.

“Um, yeah,” Al said, sheepish he’d been caught listening in.

“Could you talk to him? At least about carrying a weapon,” Miles asked, and Alphonse promised he would, even if it wouldn’t do any good. Edward was the most stubborn person Al knew.

So when he brought it up, Edward just rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to kill anyone,” Edward said. “It’s stupid for me to even carry it.”

“You might be in trouble, Brother. I’m scared for you!” Al didn’t want them to, but treacherous tears leaked out of his eyes, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. He’d found himself more prone to tears since he’d gotten his body back, which is what he tried to blubber out between sobs.

Edward shushed him, grabbing his hands and kneeling in front of Alphonse. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be ok.”

“I don’t want to lose you, Brother. What if the alchemist comes back? You won’t be able to defend yourself, and it’s-” Hiccup. “All my fault. I’m the reason you don’t have your alchemy.”

“Don’t. Don’t ever say that,” Edward said, his voice strangely hoarse. Edward rose, dropped Al’s hands, and left the room without looking back.

Alphonse didn’t follow, but just moments later, Edward poked his head back into the room, “Let’s spar.”

They were well-matched now, though Edward’s more durable body gave him an edge. After Edward beat him three straight fights, they laid on the hot sand, staring up at the sky.

“I would do anything for you, Alphonse,” Edward said, in-between wheezes from their exertion. “I’m just so glad to have your body back.”

“Me too, Brother,” Al said. The sun beat down on them, their layer of sweat thickening every moment they remained in the sweltering heat. Yet, Alphonse didn’t want to get up either. He closed his eyes, focusing on the miraculous feeling of warmth and exhaustion.

After they finally cleaned up, they learned that, like the Ishvalans had requested, the Fuhrer had formally condemned the Ishvalan attacks, and he was seeking any available information the man they’d dubbed the “Sand Alchemist.”

“Sand Alchemist,” Havoc said slowly, like he was testing the flavor of it on his tongue. “’Cause the explosions were sand-based. Kinda catchy.”

“The Fuhrer suggested it may be a former Amestrian soldier,” Mustang said with a stern expression, in no mood for such inane discussions on nicknames.

“It would explain his knowledge of the Amestrian attacks,” Miles said.

“But there are no records of any alchemist during the war who can do what he can,” Mustang said, throwing down a pile of files. “No manmade sand explosions. No one who could possibly make explosions like that except-”

“Except?” Breda asked.

“Except Kimblee,” Miles supplied.

“Kimblee is dead,” Mustang said. “Besides, if this were Kimblee-”

“We would have all known it by now,” Miles interrupted. “He has a certain… style.”

Edward muttered curses under his breath at Kimblee, and considering Alphonse had seen the wounds Kimblee inflicted on Edward, he was tempted to repeat them.

The Fuhrer had wanted to send additional troops to Kedesh, but Mustang had talked him out of it.

“If any of them make the wrong move, everything could be at risk,” Mustang said, his eyes focused on the Ishvalans. “The situation is tense enough as it is.”

Although this hadn’t been an easy time, the Ishvalans nodded, and it felt like some of the tension had passed.

“There are only so many places this Sand Alchemist can hide,” Mustang said. “We’ll find him.”

But the old city of Kedesh was an enormous, ruinous place. It could take weeks, if not months, to search it for a hide-out. Never mind if he’d already left Kedesh.

“He’s not going to leave Kedesh,” Elder Vikram said in his gravelly voice. “We are his prey.”

But beyond Elder Vikram’s certainty lay dozens of questions.

Where would this Sand Alchemist attack next? It could be a public gathering, like the market, or a place of significance, like the _Zikkaron_ , and although many of the people in the inn were skilled combatants, only so many could hold their own in an alchemic battle. And they couldn’t be everywhere at once. It felt like they were being sieged, and nowhere was safe.

Alphonse couldn’t deny that he was scared, but they’d faced down much worse and come out all right. He had to focus on that and stay hopeful. He had faith in everyone in this room, and he had to believe that they’d beat back this Sand Alchemist too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so humbled by the enthusiastic response to the last chapter. I hope you're not too disappointed that there was no great revelation yet, but have patience! Things are heating up in Ishval. And thank you so much for the kind comments. I cherish every single one! 
> 
> Next week, we'll be back with Riza Hawkeye's POV.


	8. Riza Hawkeye II

All they could do was wait for another attack.

Their leads on the identity of the Sand Alchemist had revealed nothing, so the only viable solution was to ransack Kedesh in pursuit and hope a clue turned up. But they couldn’t do that either. While it presented a slim chance to apprehend Gustav, their efforts would be guaranteed to alienate the Ishvalan people, who wouldn’t be thrilled with Amestrian soldiers rampaging through their struggling city. So, essentially, they were paralyzed.

Scar and Major Miles had tried to form their own Ishvalan police force, at least on a temporary basis, but it was the kind of thing that Amestris- Central in particular- didn’t look kindly on. The people back in Central would have worried that the Ishvalans were mobilizing another army and threatening Amestris, so it was quickly shot down.

It was all about perception, and nothing seemed to be on their side.

The only thing Scar and Miles could accomplish was the creation of an Ishvalan patrol around Kedesh, made up of young men who’d never fought a battle in their lives. They didn’t even carry weapons, because, after all, there wasn’t any weaponry to be had in Ishval.  

The political mind games that were supposed to be saving Ishval were now destroying it from the inside.

The Amestrians had discussed moving the Ishvalan Accords to Central, and it wasn’t a bad idea in theory. Central had a more manageable climate, better safety, and easy access to the Fuhrer. But these were the _Ishvalan_ Accords. This was about Ishval. So the idea stayed between Mustang, Hawkeye, Breda, and Havoc.

They would just have to rely on the preventative measures of the Ishvalan patrol and hope that it was enough to dissuade the Sand Alchemist from attacking again.  

Riza doubted it.  

The very next day, when the delegation was choking down a quick lunch between debates, a quaking clap of thunder shook the inn, and not a minute later, an unfamiliar Ishvalan man rushed in.

He bent over, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. “The square,” he forced out. “Attack. Now.”

The adrenaline instantly rushed through her veins. If they could be just a bit faster, just a bit better, they would catch this attacker. There was no way that they were going to be pushed around by a single alchemist. This inn currently housed some of the most accomplished soldiers of their time.

The Sand Alchemist was not going to get away this time.

Scar, Miles, and the Amestrian delegation, minus Ariyn, bolted towards the square.

Miles had wanted Edward, Alphonse, and Winry to stay behind, but after they began arguing, Mustang insisted that there was no time, so the Resembool trio trailed behind the Amestrian forces.

It was lunchtime, which meant that the main square, where they had seen that beautiful wedding what felt like ages ago, would be teeming with people.

At first glance, nothing was amiss.

Until they reached the alleyway surrounding the square.

There was sand everywhere. Not just on the ground, but it felt like they were suddenly wading through a cloud of it, pushing against something that couldn’t push back. It blinded her, but she shut her eyes, knowing she could trust her memory to lead her through the square itself.  

Through the whirling of the sand, she could make out high-pitched screaming. But Riza didn’t know how anyone could be screaming in this sandstorm, because every time she opened her mouth, the sand choked her, forcing the words down.

“He might still be here,” Mustang muttered through coughs, and Hawkeye nodded, though she doubted he could see it.

She heard a clap behind her, and suddenly, for a moment, there was a wide swath of clean air surrounding Alphonse, who kneeled, pressing his hands onto the ground beneath him.

She got her first clear image of the epicenter of the explosion.

And then it was gone, swept away again in a sandy storm. Alphonse clapped again, and again, it cleared. But as though this were its natural state, Al couldn’t maintain the clean air for more than a few moments.  

What she was able to see, though, was horrific, like something out of a nightmare. Like something out of _her_ nightmares. Bodies lay fragmented on the ground like pieces of rubble. The charred stench of death was the same as she remembered, and it kept trying to pull her back to the War. The men and women she’d killed with her sniper rifle. Their looks of shock, eternally frozen on their face as they collapsed instantly. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel guilt back then, because if she’d spent time dwelling on the evil she was doing, she wouldn’t have been able to go through with it. So she killed her targets without question, because that was what a good soldier did.

_How could she have done that? How many lives did she snuff out prematurely with cold eyes and an unfeeling heart?_

“Hawkeye,” Mustang said and put his hand on her shoulder.

The contact shook her back to reality. There were people she could save right now, and she had to focus on that. Alphonse began clapping continuously, pushing the storm back as much as he could.

Miles led a group of Ishvalans to help the clean-up, but Riza stuck close to Mustang. Without speaking, without planning, and without so much as a glance to the other, their eyes focused on finding the attacker. Mustang could examine the people in the immediate vicinity, while Riza scanned the horizon. She watched the distant faces, for anyone who covered their features, for anyone who looked Amestrian, for anyone who looked nervous. Her eyes, famously hawk-like, saw no one out of the ordinary. 

She was about to admit defeat, that they had lost the attacker, again, when Mustang said, “4 o’clock. 50 feet.”

Hawkeye whipped her head around, and her eyes latched onto a retreating form. At first glance, he wasn’t anything unusual, but as he maneuvered through the crowd, she noticed that his white hood mostly disguised a thin strip of dark hair.  

There was no time to get anyone’s help, as the Sand Alchemist had been remarkably adept at quick getaways so far. So Hawkeye and Mustang pursued, even though she didn’t know what they were going to do when they caught up with him, considering they were in too close quarters to do any fire alchemy or sniping.

The mass of people, some helping, some spectating, some crying over the wounded, jostled them as they tried to follow. After a panicked woman rushed past them, sending them careening into one another, Hawkeye scanned the crowd for their target but found only a sea of white. Mustang swore.

“We lost him,” he said, but Hawkeye wasn’t so sure yet, squinting through the masses.

“11 o’clock. 120 feet,” she said, and before Mustang could respond, she chased their attacker again.

The man was smart, Hawkeye would readily admit. He was careful to stay within a crowd, which made flame alchemy unusable (unless Mustang wanted to kill everyone here). Which proposed the question of whether he had some familiarity with Mustang’s ability. Hawkeye kept her eyes on his hood, all while pushing through the dense swarm of congregating people, Mustang just a moment behind.

And then the man stopped and turned back to them, careful to remain in the midst of the throng. Hawkeye kept pushing through the people, but it was too disorganized, and there were too many obstacles in her way, as people crouched over the injured.

The man lifted his hands to his hood and lowered it, revealing a cold smirk, as he stared directly at them.

He was Amestrian, no question of that now. His hair was dark but had begun receding. His eyes were light, as was his skin. And then he waved at them. He _waved_ at them, before turning around, covering his head- even the sliver of dark hair- and disappearing into the crowd.

“Can you get a clear shot?” Mustang asked, and Hawkeye was forced to answer negatively.

“Damn it,” he said. She concurred completely.

They didn’t give up, however. They rushed through the crowd, and at last, the sandstorm finally cleared, but by the time they’d travelled far enough that the crowd’s shouting was a dull murmur, there was no trace of the man. Mustang swore again.

“Did you know him, sir?” Hawkeye asked.

“I did. He was a subordinate of mine during the War,” he said, frowning. “We should have-”

Hawkeye cut him off. “It’s too late now. He’s gone, and he could be anywhere. We need to go back to help. We can figure out our next move afterward,” she said in her most no-nonsense tone. It wasn’t her first choice either, but unless they were going to pour through every home in Kedesh, every alleyway, every hiding place, what other option did they have?

Mustang meekly nodded, and they thrust themselves into the crowd once more. It was already beginning to disperse, as the injured were being carried away and assisted. Neither Mustang nor Hawkeye were doctors, but they were still able to contribute to the relief efforts the best they could.

As Riza labored under the hot sun, she was constantly reminded of the War. She pushed it aside, but still, she knew that these people here: the woman who’d been crushed under the explosion of cobblestone, the girl who’d gotten a concussion from the crowd’s frenzy, the man who’d been pushed into the adjacent building from the force of the explosion; these people would join her nightmares, filed under people who got hurt because of her own failure.

By the end of the day, they’d counted only three deaths, which should have been a miracle, but felt like an overwhelming failure. Dozens of injured, though, and the already insufficient medical facilities in Kedesh were now packed to the brim. General Mustang promised medical assistance from the Fuhrer, but in the same breath, Mustang warned that there was no way to avoid Amestrian soldiers in Kedesh now.

For all they debated about the relationship between Ishval and Amestris moving forward, Ishval was currently still a part of Amestris, and it was under Amestrian jurisdiction. People were dying, buildings were being attacked, and failing to act would be worse than sending in the soldiers.

Not that the Ishvalans were pleased about it.

“It’ll make us feel like we’re being occupied again,” Elder Vikram said with a sneer, and it was a surprising day indeed when Ariyn Fitzgerald was on his side, though more for reasons of money and resources than any care for the Ishvalans’ well-being. 

“There is nothing I can do,” Mustang said. “The soldiers will be here for your protection. We can’t let another attack occur. We have a duty-”

“Our duty is to make our people feel safe! I don’t trust the soldiers!” Elder Vikram said, spit flying from his lips.

“Right now, your people are not safe! We can’t sit around waiting, so we have to use all of the resources at our disposal.” Mustang pinched the ridge of his nose. “I know you don’t like it, but we’re trying to save Ishvalan lives.”

“You know all about that, don’t you, _Flame Alchemist_?” Elder Vikram said. “You must be the authority on Ishvalan lives. I guess that happens when you murder thousands of them!”  

Mustang recoiled like he’d been slapped, and Elder Vikram marched out, slamming the dining room door behind him.

Elder Shan promised that she would speak to Elder Vikram and try to “drill some sense into that moron” as she put it, though she didn’t seem too thrilled either.

In the meantime, Mustang also informed them on the identity of the attacker.  

“I got a look at his face today,” he said. “Captain Marius Gustav. He fought in the Amestrian army during the Ishvalan War.”

“I knew it,” Scar said without any triumph.

“He was stationed in Ishval for years,” Mustang said. “Since nearly the beginning of the War, I think. I’ll get his file from the military, but he wasn’t a State Alchemist. If he did know alchemy back then, nobody knew about it.”

“So I doubt it,” Hawkeye said. Mustang nodded.

“Then he’s spent all these years learning alchemy. Why? To come back and destroy Ishval?” Havoc asked, as serious as Hawkeye had ever seen him.

“That seems a bit… dramatic,” Miles said. She noticed that his eyes kept darting towards Edward, but either Edward didn’t notice or was ignoring it.

“I don’t understand,” Havoc said that night, when it was just Mustang, Hawkeye, Havoc and Breda back in Mustang’s room. “With these Amestrian soldiers, we’ll be able to patrol the city much better. We’ll stop this from happening again. We’ll be _saving_ Ishvalan lives, putting our own soldiers at risk. Why don’t they want that?”

“Because having soldiers here is just the first step. That’s how it started last time,” Hawkeye said. “Amestrian soldiers do not bring to mind peace and protection for Ishvalans.”

“But that has to change, if Ishval is ever going to be a real part of Amestris,” Havoc said. He sat on the ground, stretching out his legs one at a time.

“It’s trust we’ll have to earn,” Mustang said, staring out of the window into the darkness. Clouds hung over the stars, creating a blank canvas in the sky, which seemed to captivate Mustang’s attention. But as Riza stared into the darkness, all she could wonder was how many more Ishvalans they’d have to bury before the sand had its fill of Ishvalan blood.

The next morning brought the arrival of the Amestrian soldiers. As soon as they disembarked from the train, they were herded into the inn. The only one who seemed pleased at this turn of events was, surprisingly enough, Abra, who was happy with all of the extra mouths to feed and the prospect of a full inn again.

The soldiers were brought behind the inn and lined up in rows under the scorching sun. They stood for ten minutes, which must have seemed like a lifetime, sweating in their uniforms in the unfamiliar Ishvalan heat. Mustang and Hawkeye watched them from the window, checking for fidgeting or discontent.

Finally, Mustang turned to her, “Let’s put them out of their misery.” And they went to formally greet the unit.

General Mustang took charge of the troops with a brief introduction, before a quick transition into what would be expected of them. The soldiers weren’t shaking exactly, but it was awfully close, as Mustang lectured them on every protocol Hawkeye could think of.

Hawkeye surveyed the soldiers as Mustang spoke. They were extremely young. The most senior member was James Darrow, only a second lieutenant, who couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. The dull shadow of acne scars still lined his rounded cheeks, and his deathly pallor indicated he’d spent most of his military career thus far indoors, probably filing paperwork.

And Second Lieutenant James Darrow was the most experienced of the lot.

The rest were fresh out of the academy: Central soldiers who the Fuhrer could spare from the Aurego conflict. Their new uniforms and guns glistened under the cloudless sky, but they didn’t have the eyes of killers yet.

Not to say that fresh-faced soldiers were necessarily bad, but in her experience, they tended to be more trigger-happy. Unused to dealing with civilians in a militaristic capacity, they would overestimate the levels of danger in troubling situations. But on the plus side, none of the soldiers would have served in the Ishvalan Civil War, so they hadn’t been exposed to the Amestrian propaganda that had been funneled through the military throughout the War’s duration: that Ishvalans were less than human, that they deserved what was happening to them.

Not that these soldiers hadn’t been exposed to anti-Ishvalan rhetoric in school, but none of these soldiers had ever taken an Ishvalan life. Which was more than she could say about herself or General Mustang.  

As Mustang spoke to them, their faces were a mix of admiration and fear, which surprised Hawkeye.  It was easy to forget how far they’d risen in the military and how well-renowned Mustang was. He was the Flame Alchemist and the stories of his Ishvalan domination, as well as his part (though no one knew the real story) during the events of the Promised Day, were legendary. In the military world, he’d become a celebrity, but what she didn’t realize, until their gazes turned toward her, was that she’d gained nearly as much attention as he had.

The infamous Hawk’s Eye watching General Mustang’s back.

From the moment the soldiers arrived, she’d heard their whispers. Obviously none of them had learned how to gossip without being caught yet, but Hawkeye didn’t say anything, as much as she wanted to. It was easier to have them focus on Mustang and herself than the growing dissidence between Amestris and Ishval.

“Lastly and most importantly,” General Mustang concluded, “don’t threaten Ishvalan lives no matter what. If necessary, retreat and regroup, but do not threaten any excessive force. If I get so much as a rumor that you’ve put a toe out of line, you’ll find yourself court-martialed, and you’ll have to answer to me.”

He turned to Hawkeye, who’d stood silently behind him. A brief smile flashed across his face, before he smoothed it out.

“Any additional comments, Captain?”

“No, sir!”

When Mustang’s men finally gathered together in their room that night, Havoc hovered over the group conspiratorially, “We were never that green, right?”

“I knew you at the academy, dumbass,” Breda said, good-naturedly smacking him upside the head.

“But still,” Havoc said. “I thought they were going to send an alchemist.”

“The Fuhrer wanted to send Major Armstrong, but he recently went up North,” Mustang said, leaning on the edge of the bed. He fiddled with his fire alchemy gloves, an old nervous habit from after the War, but didn’t elaborate.

“Can the North survive both Armstrongs together?” Havoc asked, as he began pacing the room. Not out of restlessness, but rather, Hawkeye could detect a slight limp in his legs. Stiffness was a side effect to his refusal to use his cane, but Hawkeye was not his mother. She wasn’t going to bother him about it anymore, and if he wanted to ignore the doctor’s suggestions, it wasn’t her business.  

“I doubt it. I’d bet money that the Armstrongs get in a serious fight that damages at least a million cenz worth of equipment in the first week,” Breda said.

“You’re on!” Havoc said. The two shook hands, and Hawkeye rolled her eyes.

“There were no other alchemists available?” she asked, and Mustang shook his head.

“The only other one was Major Tolland, but he served in the Ishvalan War and was notorious for being anti-Ishvalan, so they weren’t going to send him,” Mustang said with a frown.  

“So it goes,” Breda said. “We’ll have to make do.”

“This isn’t going to go over well in town,” Mustang said. “I’m pretty sure that any progress we’ve made in gaining Ishvalan trust is going to disappear.”

“If we save the day and take down the Sand Alchemist, won’t that help?” Havoc asked.  

“I suppose,” Riza said. “So long as the soldiers quickly vacate Ishval afterwards. But, remember, the Ishvalans are in this situation because of us. It’s an Amestrian alchemist causing this mess.”

When she woke up early the next morning, as she enjoyed doing, she sat with Abra, who was cooking the large portions the fresh soldiers would need. Hawkeye offered to help multiple times, but Abra kept insisting there wasn’t anything for her to do. So Riza twiddled her thumbs, while Abra measured out a reddish powder in a dented can.  

Riza confessed that she was concerned about the Ishvalan reaction to the Amestrian soldiers.

“Don’t worry too much about the Ishvalans that oppose it,” Abra said. “They may not like it, but if your intentions are as good as I think they are, they’ll realize that it’s for the best.”

“I’m worried,” Riza said. “If an Ishvalan is angry about their presence and gets into a fight with a soldier….” She trailed off.

“Don’t worry so much, dear,” she said, stirring a large pot, full to the brim with liquid. “It doesn’t do much good, and it’s just a distraction from the now. It seems like you’ve done everything you can to prevent such a thing, so all you can do is hope that it’s enough.”

Abra looked up from her cooking for a moment. “There is no second chance with this,” she said, suddenly completely serious, before switching topics back to Mustang and how they would make such a nice couple.

As always, Riza denied any non-work relationship and assured Abra that she had no intention of one ever existing.

Abra, per usual, laughed.

“Don’t worry so much, dear,” Abra repeated. “He’s just a man, and you’re just a woman. It’s not more complicated than that.” She began chopping vegetables and let Riza assist her.

“What are the anti-fraternization laws in the Amestrian military? Does that present a problem for you two?” Abra asked, eyes focused on her slicing.

“There are laws, yes,” Riza said slowly.

“I’ve never heard about those being enforced before,” Abra said.

Riza knew she would be fueling Abra’s flames, but she had no reason to lie; she had nothing to hide.

“Well, they’re not rigorously enforced,” Riza said. “There have been intra-military relationships, and even marriages, without much of a fuss. But rules are rules. And they’re there for a reason. Just because some of the upper ranks of the military wanted to get frisky with their subordinates and therefore not enforce the laws for their own selfish purposes, does that mean they’re not valid? They’re still the rules.”

But Abra didn’t fight back. Instead she just laughed, throwing her head back and chuckling like Riza had just told the funniest joke.

“Don’t know who you’re trying to convince, dear,” she finally said, brushing tears of laughter out of her eyes with her wrist, still wielding a chopping knife between her fingers.

Hawkeye walked away from the conversation uncomfortable, but that wasn’t unusual for conversations with Abra. Not that Riza didn’t enjoy Abra’s presence, which was reassuring and pleasant. But she certainly wasn’t afraid to pry into personal business. As much as Abra cooked, Hawkeye rarely remembered Abra eating; instead, she was sure, Abra survived with meddling as her only nourishment.

With the additional Amestrian soldiers, the Ishvalan Accords could proceed as expected, despite the attacks. It wasn’t like the extensive problems of Ishval just disappeared because they’d been distracted by a terrorist. Although the discourses were tiring, it was somewhat of a relief to be back accomplishing their goals in Ishval, rather than playing defense on some alchemic madman.

But they couldn’t avoid talking about him for long. The delegation returned to the back room of the inn, and Mustang took out the file on the Sand Alchemist (which had been hand-delivered by Second Lieutenant James Darrow) and proceeded to share the key features.

There wasn’t anything too surprising in it though. Captain Marius Gustav had served in the Ishvalan War, worked his way up the ranks to Captain, and after the War, retired from military life. As far as anybody knew, he’d been enjoying a quiet retirement in the West.

“He served under you, General?” Miles asked, perusing the file. A picture of Marius Gustav’s face laid flat on the table, taken not long before he quit the military. He was smiling, but his eyes were stony. “Was there anything remarkable about him?”

Mustang shook his head, “Nothing. I recognized his face, but beyond that… there was nothing special about him.”

They reviewed the patrols of the Amestrian forces and the potential next moves of Captain Marius Gustav. By the end of this, none of them wanted to move onto Ishvalan-Amestrian relations, but they pressed ahead, although their hearts weren’t in it.

Everyone was quieter than usual, and even Ariyn Fitzgerald didn’t have her usual argumentative tone when she (still) disagreed with everyone. They’d been discussing ways to kick start the Ishvalan economy, and she was all for highlighting tourism, much to the chagrin of the Ishvalans. They’d managed to talk her out of that, but there was no way to know exactly what she was hiding with her half-smiles and trained neutral expressions.  

“It’s been a long day,” Mustang said to Hawkeye, when the delegation had finally cleared away for the night. Just she and Mustang remained in the dining room, which had long been cleaned of dishes and food.

“It has.”

“Remember when this was just about helping Ishval?” he asked wryly.

“Was it ever?” she asked. “It’s always been about more than that.”

“I suppose,” he said, staring at his hands.

Riza had recognized that Roy Mustang was a very handsome man the moment she’d first laid eyes upon him all those years ago, when he’d come begging her father for the secrets of alchemy. Riza had pretended that she didn’t notice his physical attractiveness, and so, by the time she’d followed Mustang into the military, her act had bled into reality.

She’d grown used to being a step behind him, being his eyes when he had none. And she had promised to kill him if he ever strayed off of the right path. These were things a romantic partner couldn’t do. Thoughts of kissing and touching and embracing were useless fantasies she’d harbored as a child. Now she understood that there were things far more intimate than sex, and that as long as she was by his side, she would be satisfied.

At least, she thought she knew all of this.

Until Abra kept nudging, the way that only Abra could.  

Mustang was someone Riza would follow into battle without question, but Abra seemed to think that meant something more.

“Riza?” he asked, and she focused back onto the conversation. She was usually so good with multi-tasking, but she was uncharacteristically distracted.

The way her first name slipped off of his tongue was intoxicating, but he only used it when they were alone. She remembered the fight with Envy in the sewers, when she lied to the homunculus that Mustang called her ‘Riza’ in private. It was a lie then. Riza didn’t know when it had switched to a truth. Was it when he was recovering in the hospital? When he had to rely on her as his eyes? When she was the first thing he saw when his vision returned?

She loved the way her name sounded on Mustang’s lips, and she cursed Abra, not for the first time, that she’d awakened something long dormant in Hawkeye. There was something special in Mustang, something that she’d never noticed in anyone else. There was something… extra, like a spotlight shining only on him. Even as she denied her feelings to Abra, she knew that, in her heart, as long as she followed Mustang around- even if she was doing it platonically- she’d never look to any other man.

“It’s all gotten so out of control, hasn’t it?” Mustang asked, and Hawkeye quickly agreed. They talked strategy for a short while, though it was more a topic of comfort for them than any attempt at progress. Strategy was like a bedtime story to them, and as they both grew tired, they rose to retire.

“Riza?” Mustang asked, before they climbed the stairs.

“Yes?”

A pause.

“Never mind,” he said, and again, Riza returned to the cold reality. Their happiness was not in the stars, regardless of whatever Abra prattled on about. Hawkeye was the closest confidant of Mustang, and she wouldn’t trade that for anything.

But a voice in her head that sounded an awful lot like Abra spoke to her as she was trying to fall asleep.

_No risk, no reward, dear. Don’t lose what could be, just because you are satisfied by what is._

She awoke the next morning early, as usual. The sun was just starting to creep over the horizon, which left her room mostly dark. As Riza was getting dressed though, she heard a moan. And it was coming from underneath the pile of blankets Ariyn Fitzgerald liked to cocoon herself in while she slept. Hawkeye ignored the sound, hoping Ariyn would just fall back to sleep. She’d had always slept through Riza’s morning routines before, without so much as a budge.

“Riza?”

Ariyn had taken to calling her ‘Riza’ without Hawkeye’s permission. It was such a minor grievance in the scheme of things, but it set Hawkeye’s nerves on edge.  

“Yes?”

“Don’t you sleep?” Her voice was mumbled from underneath the blankets, and Hawkeye pinned her hair into place with the ease of familiarity. She’d learned how to do it without the assistance of a mirror a long time ago.

“Not as much as you,” Hawkeye whispered. If Ariyn was still awake, she would have heard it, but Riza guessed she’d already fallen back to sleep.

However, there was a rustling from underneath the pile of sheets Ariyn was supposedly in, and then after a bit of squirming, Ariyn’s head popped out from the top, revealing a frizzy mess of hair.

“What do you even do at this hour? It’s ungodly,” she said, moaning and yawning simultaneously.

“This and that,” Hawkeye said.

“Early risers always have secrets,” she said matter-of-factly. 

This was what rooming with Ariyn Fitzgerald was like. It was like she was living with a one-woman judgment show. Everything, from the way she styled her hair to her career choices to her eating habits, were apt for critiquing.

But Ariyn had a different agenda this morning.

“I saw you and Mustang come up together last night,” Ariyn said slyly, all sleepiness banished from her voice.

“We were discussing the Ishvalan patrols,” she said, though she didn’t need to justify anything to Ariyn.

“Of course you were,” Ariyn said, as she nodded in an exaggerated fashion. Riza wasn’t going to argue with her and made to leave, when Ariyn spoke again.

“You know what Parliament gossips about you?” she asked.

“I really don’t care,” Hawkeye said. “It’s none of my concern.”

“It really should be,” Ariyn said, and she leaned back onto her pillow, as though she were going to make Riza beg for the rumors. Riza would do no such thing and made to leave again. Ariyn bolted up, and the words poured out of her mouth faster than Hawkeye could leave the room.

“They say you’re his servant. That you’d do anything for him, even sexual favors. That the only thing you’ve done to rise in the ranks is stick close to Mustang.”

“What people gossip doesn’t concern me,” she said, urging herself that if she said it convincingly, it must be true.

“It should concern you more, Riza. Take a word of advice from me. What people think of you matters, and if you want to make anything of yourself in the military or in the government, you’re not going to do it by Mustang’s side.” Her eyes were wide, and it struck Riza that Ariyn thought that, by saying this, she was doing her a favor.

“Why are you telling me this?” Hawkeye asked.

Ariyn sighed and rolled back into her blanket cocoon. Hawkeye put her hand on the doorknob, but before she turned it, Ariyn’s voice rang out.

“Because there aren’t many women in Central Command, and we should watch each other’s backs. And I’ve seen you here. You’re not what I expected- you’re much more competent than a captain.”

Whether this was an elaborate plot to gain Hawkeye’s trust, Riza didn’t know, but she couldn’t help but feel strangely touched. Everything Ariyn had said was completely useless, but Riza had grown awfully used to being the only woman in the room.

It was enough to give Ariyn a mostly factual response.

“General Mustang is someone I… respect deeply. And I trust him absolutely. Maybe it isn’t beneficial for my career to stay as his shadow, but I know that’s where… I can do the most good.”

Riza didn’t wait for a response and fled the room, wondering whether Ariyn had just out-maneuvered her.

That afternoon the Ishvalan Accords delegation toured the outskirts of Kedesh and considered the city’s future development. Although it was wonderful to breathe in the fresh Ishvalan air, Riza spent the trip on edge, too busy searching for Captain Gustav around every corner. She’d tried to talk Miles out of the trip, but he’d said it was good for publicity. To demonstrate that they weren’t scared of some terrorist.

Of course. It would be great publicity if the Ishvalan delegation got blown up.

It was reassuring to have Mustang by her side, considering there were very few people he couldn’t beat in a fair fight, but the key word there was ‘fair.’ There were many ways to even the playing field, and most of those would involve eliminating Mustang before he had the chance to snap his fingers.

They were out in the open, and it was the perfect time for an ambush, despite their increased security force. So, although Hawkeye knew that important discussions were occurring, she couldn’t focus on them while still maintaining the utmost control over her surroundings.

But all of her worry led to nothing, and they arrived back at the inn no worse for wear. Riza felt oddly off balanced that her instincts had been so wrong.

They’d hardly been back for a minute, though, when a horn sounded. Three long blasts, and then one short one. It was the signal for an attack.

Hawkeye exchanged glances with Mustang, before running out of the inn towards the center of town. She knew many of the others were running behind her, but she didn’t look back to check. She’d had a horrible feeling all day, and she hadn’t gotten this far by ignoring her instincts.  

They followed one of the soldier’s directions to the explosion site, and Hawkeye didn’t notice until they arrived that they were running towards the _Zikkaron._

She didn’t know much about it, except that it was an extremely sacred place in Ishval. Her stomach churned but she ignored it, focusing on keeping her breathing steady. She held her gun at her side, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

The stone gate guarding the _Zikkaron_ had been blown to smithereens. Stone segments lay on the street, revealing a gaping hole at the front. A baby-faced soldier came running through the debris.  

“No casualties, sir!” he said, throwing Mustang a textbook-perfect salute. His enthusiasm, probably due to speaking to General Mustang directly, was a waste of time, so she let Mustang deal with him. Hawkeye climbed over the stone fragments and into the _Zikkaron,_ when Scar leaned into her.

“It’s disrespectful for non-Ishvalans to visit,” he said.

“So should we not investigate?” she asked. It came out more bitingly than she’d intended.

“It’s just a warning,” he said.

“And it’s appreciated,” Mustang said, the baby-faced soldier dismissed. “It’s not much, but considering there weren’t any causalities and there’s no sign of Gustav, I sent all of the other soldiers back, so at least it’ll just be us.”

Which included the delegation members who’d followed them: Havoc, Breda, Edward, Alphonse, Winry, and Miles, who all climbed over the wreckage and entered the _Zikkaron_ behind them.

“He could be still be here,” Breda muttered, and Riza was forced to agree. The monuments that the looming gates had hidden were massive. Each was unique, each hid new corners that Gustav could be hiding in, waiting to jump the delegation, now that they’d lowered their guard.

But smoke still rose from the second explosion site, deep within the _Zikkaron_ itself.

“No, no, no,” Riza heard behind her. It was Edward, though she’d barely recognized that panicked tone coming from his lips.  

“No,” he kept repeating, speeding up, so that he matched pace with Hawkeye, Mustang, Scar, and Miles. He surpassed them within moments, and began running towards the explosion. A billow of smoke sputtered from the top, a beacon that they followed, weaving in and out of elaborate testaments to the former glory of Ishval.

“No,” Edward kept repeating, and he arrived at the damage first. Only one monument had been touched, but where once there must have been grandeur, only rubble remained.  

“No,” Edward repeated, softer than before. For a moment Hawkeye thought he was going to punch the fallen stones, but he just collapsed onto his knees.

“Not- not this,” he said, bowing his head into his hands.

Hawkeye stepped forward to ask what was going on, but Miles shook his head. When the rest of the group caught up with them, they were not so considerate.

“What the hell is going on?” Havoc asked. Edward was frozen, knees buried in the sand, his blond hair whipping in the wind.

“I-I,” Edward forced out without lifting his head. “No.”

It was only then that Hawkeye noticed an Ishvalan word spelled out in graffiti on the adjacent mausoleum. Scar noticed it at the same time as her, and he read it out in his low voice.

_“Z’hoom.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to all of the awesome peeps leaving comments and following the story. Y’all are the best! 
> 
>  
> 
> Next week we’ll be back into Winry’s POV!


	9. Winry Rockbell II

Winry felt helpless.

Because the _Vaidya_ family monument was rubble, and all she could do was stare at the fragments, as though that could change something. This was Ed and Al’s only remaining connection to Ishval, and although it was merely stone, her stomach twisted and her eyes burned, as she took in its lopsided wreckage. This had been a tie to their deceased family, a tie to Ishval, a mark on the landscape that demonstrated that they truly belonged here.

And it was in hundreds of pieces.

Alphonse ran forward and embraced Edward, who stiffened at the contact. But a moment later, Edward eased into the hug, and Winry tore her eyes away from the monument’s remnants and wrapped her arms around both of the brothers. And, for a moment, there was nothing in the world but the three of them.

Edward’s shoulders shook, but his eyes were dry, unlike Alphonse’s and Winry’s. It felt wrong that Winry was crying over _their_ family’s legacy, but at Edward’s shell-shocked apathy, the tears poured harder, rolling down her cheeks in uneven torrents.

“This is the monument you visited before, Edward, yes? So I was right,” Miles said, his gaze gravitating towards the “ _Z’hoom”_ graffiti, leering over them from the adjacent mausoleum.  “He’s targeting you, and possibly has been following you. There’s no question then: Gustav must already know.”

For many of the people here, Miles’ words made no sense. But no one had the opportunity to question it.

Because despite the windless weather, the sand beneath their feet began to rustle and dance through the air. It nipped at their exposed skin, and just moments later, their vision was obscured by the swirling specks, like they were caught in a mid-winter’s hailstorm. Even the expansive Ishvalan sky blinked out of sight, so that Winry was suddenly isolated in the whirlwind.

“He’s here! Gustav’s here!” Mustang shouted needlessly, coughing between words. “Come out and show your face, you coward!”

A jeering cackle echoed through the sand, “And why would I do that, General? I have you _exactly_ where I want you. It’s no fun if you incinerate me before we get the chance to reminisce about the good ol’ days.”  

“What do you want?” Havoc yelled back.  

“Good question,” Marius Gustav said, his voice coarse, as though he’d been born out of the sand that he controlled. “I’m here for my revenge.”

Distantly, Winry heard Riza cock her gun, but she couldn’t imagine how Riza would be able to shoot him when she couldn’t see their own allies, never mind Gustav. In the sandy vortex, Winry couldn’t even tell which way was which.

But maybe Gustav wouldn’t be able to figure out exactly where they were either. In their mutual blindness, perhaps they were in relative protection.

“Alphonse?” Mustang asked quietly. “Wherever you are, could you use your alchemy to clear the sand?”

“Maybe,” Alphonse said. “But I can’t do it for long. Only a few seconds, I think.”

“Then we’ll have to wait until he’s distracted,” Breda said. “Keep Gustav talking.”

Winry really hoped that their planning had been done quietly enough that Gustav couldn’t hear it. Because, for all she knew, Gustav was standing right next to her. Which was terrifying.

“What revenge are you talking about, Gustav?” Mustang shouted. “No one has done anything to harm you!”

“Ishval destroyed my life! Everything is ruined, because of those desert rats. So it’s only fair that I return the favor!”

“I don’t-” Mustang began.

“And you, _General Mustang._ ” The man laughed, emitting a cold, shallow sound that sent shivers down Winry’s spine. “I’ve got personal business with you, but don’t worry. I’ll get to you soon.

“After all, you’ve had those slimy _Z’hoom_ in front of you, and you never even noticed. I always thought that you were overrated, and now I can see that I was right. But don’t worry, _General,_ I won’t make the same mistakes as you.”

“The War is over, Gustav,” Miles’ clear voice rang out. “Stop the attacks, and all of this can end. Ishval doesn’t need more blood on its sand.”  

“Not yet, not yet,” Breda muttered from behind Winry. “Wait for an opening.”

“It can’t be over,” Gustav shouted back. “It’s not over until all of the scum are eliminated. That’s what they told us during the War, so doesn’t it still count after they’ve changed their minds? Is it such a crime that I took the military’s lessons to heart?”

Hatred bubbled up inside Winry, and she reached blindly out into the general direction where she remembered Edward was standing and locked her hands around Edward’s narrow wrist. Although she wanted to imagine that it was to stop him from doing something rash, it was more for her own comfort.

“Do you remember, Mustang, how long I served in Ishval before you arrived?” Gustav didn’t wait for a response. “FIVE YEARS! And then you gander in with your alchemy, and suddenly, you’re a MAJOR! I worked for years- tirelessly, loyally, religiously- and just because you can snap your fingers and create a funeral pyre, you’re MY commanding officer! You were a child!”

“So what’s all this? Some kind of sick revenge?” Mustang yelled.  

“I buried myself in your awful alchemy for _years,_ so I could finally finish the work that you and the rest of the incompetent military couldn’t complete!”

“Get out here and fight me, you stinkin’ coward!” Edward screamed, and Winry felt his wrist tighten, as his hands balled into fists.

Marius Gustav laughed, “Don’t worry, Ishvalan scum. When the time is right, you will have your fight.” The muttering from the other soldiers continued, and she hoped that someone would do something soon. Before Edward tried to do it himself.

“After all, shouldn’t _Z’hoom_ be purged first?” Gustav asked, and as his voice magnified, his words began slurring together. “I hadn’t even meant to stumble upon you, Elrics: that was just a lucky happenstance! I think it must be fate, because why else would I feel the urge to investigate all of Mustang’s people for weaknesses? I start digging, and then some of your townspeople tell me about your dear mother! So, of course, I had to be your Ishvalan welcoming party!”

Winry wanted to kill this Marius Gustav. More than she’d wanted to kill anyone since she’d pointed that gun at Scar so long ago. It was a familiar hatred in her heart, and its reoccurrence nauseated her.

“Now!”

Winry heard a distant clap, and for a split second, the storm cleared in a wide circle surrounding Alphonse.

Two things seemed to happen at once.

First, Marius Gustav fell to the ground and pressed his palms onto the sand. His dark eyes seemed to stare right at Winry, and she shivered from their emptiness.

But luckily, second, a shot rang out. And then three more shots. Winry spun and found Riza standing firm-footed, her gun still outstretched, a small smile afforded for her attack.

So by the time the storm resumed just seconds later, Winry could see Gustav’s white coat beginning to stain with blood on his shoulder. Riza got off two more shots, but they couldn’t pursue until the sand suddenly dropped to the earth, like snow accumulation shaken from unsteady trees. Winry shook it off, and at last, it was over. Gustav was gone, leaving only a bloody handprint on a nearby statue.

“If my eyes were better or if he were closer, I could’ve just-” Mustang muttered to himself in a moment of self-deprecation Winry probably wasn’t supposed to hear.  

Winry held it together until everyone except Edward, Alphonse, and herself had left to search the premises for any sign of Gustav. As soon as they were out of hearing distance, Winry broke, sobs suddenly overtaking her small frame.

And then Edward was comforting her. Instead of the other way around. He pulled his wrist from her tight grasp, and Alphonse patted her on the shoulder. It wasn’t until she’d stopped shaking that she chanced another look at the brothers and their matching furrowed brows.  

“I’m fine,” she said, despite the tears still falling. “Are you?”

“I will be,” Edward said, and Alphonse nodded. They turned back to the _Vaidya_ family plot, which had, at the very least, stopped smoking. But it was shattered beyond repair. The inscriptions weren’t even legible anymore, except for one Ishvalan word, which shone from the ground in a shallow groove in the sand.

“You can’t use alchemy to fix it?” Winry asked.

“Some of the pieces are missing,” Alphonse said, pointing at the sand-sized specks huddled towards the bottom of the wreckage. They must have gotten caught in Gustav’s sandstorm. “I might be able to make it better though? But it still seems…”Alphonse trailed off, but Winry understood what he meant.

Ishvalans generally disliked alchemy, so using it to repair an _Ishvalan_ memorial seemed disrespectful. And yet, there was also something fundamentally wrong leaving it in fragments.

In the scheme of Ishval, it was a minor travesty, but everything about this attack had been personal. And it had culminated in the destruction of the small corner of Ishval Edward and Alphonse laid claim to.

General Mustang and the others soon returned empty-handed and disheartened, as Gustav, per usual, had vanished, leaving no clues to his current location. But now their attention was back on Edward and Alphonse.

She overheard Heridas mention that the monument belonged to some friend of a friend of Edward’s family who’d been Ishvalan-Amestrian (and therefore considered _Z’hoom_ to Gustav).  It was thoughtful of him to try to protect the Elrics’ secret, especially because Heridas didn’t even know the truth himself and therefore was just making up a story to appease the Amestrians. But when Edward heard Heridas’ words, he shook his head.

“It’s okay,” Edward said without moving his gaze from the rubble, as though he were still paying respect to his family. “You don’t have to lie for me.”

“Didn’t he call you… _Z’hoom_?” Breda said, as he marched over from his inspection of Gustav’s bloodstain. “What did he mean? That’s someone who’s part Ishvalan, but you’re not-”

“I’m not what?” Edward said, finally ripping his eyes from the decay and stomping towards the group. Al leaned on Winry but didn’t follow.

“You’re obviously not Ishvalan, so what could he have meant?” Mustang asked.

Rather than agreeing, Edward just sighed and kicked a few loose pieces of sand in his path.

The Amestrians froze, like they were in a picture. Hawkeye’s eyes widened, and Havoc was trembling, though that could be mostly blamed on his refusal to rely on his cane.

“He’s not wrong,” Edward said, lifting his head and making eye contact with each of them. Mustang, then Havoc, Breda, and Hawkeye.

“So what, then? You have some Ishvalan great-great uncle or whatever? What’s the big deal?” Havoc asked.

Edward had been given the perfect out, but Winry didn’t know whether he would take it. He’d hidden his heritage for years now, with an effortlessness that even made Winry sometimes forget it, and yet, he hadn’t dismissed Gustav’s claims outright. What would he do?

But Edward didn’t get the opportunity to make that choice.  

“No, our mother was Ishvalan,” Alphonse said, glancing at the graffiti still etched onto the nearest stone mausoleum. Edward’s head spun towards Alphonse, eyebrows raised. Alphonse shot him a little shrug and a smile, which Edward returned.  

“Your mother?”

“Ishvalan?”

Mustang’s face had a greenish tinge, like he was going to be sick. Breda and Havoc seemed more surprised than anything else. And Hawkeye eyed the Elric boys with pity, which Winry knew that they despised.   

“So?” Edward asked, crossing his arms across his chest and pursing his lips, as though he hadn’t just been outed by a homicidal madman and had confessed the truth of his own volition.  

“And it seems that our Sand Alchemist is very interested in you in particular,” Miles said, unwilling to waste time on catching the others up to speed. They stood there dumbfounded, and Miles was already ten steps ahead.

“You knew,” Mustang said, whipping his head back to face Miles. “You knew he was Ishvalan?”

“Half, actually,” Miles corrected, and a faint smile danced on his lips. Although he’d only known for about a month, everyone could see how much he was enjoying having one-up on the Amestrians.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Havoc asked Edward, but it was Alphonse who answered.

“It was easier to keep quiet,” Al said. “Amestrians don’t really like Ishvalans very much.” It was certainly true, but hearing the resigned acceptance in Al’s youthful voice broke Winry’s heart.

“I told you,” Miles continued to Edward, as though the Amestrians weren’t even there. “I _told_ you that he somehow knew about you two. But you ignored my obviously legitimate concerns.”

“Oh, lay off, Miles,” Heridas said. His words were light but his tone serious.  “It is what it is. We just need to move forward and catch Marius Gustav next time. At least the Captain shot him.” He gestured to Riza. “It’s too bad that he wasn’t sloppy enough to leave a blood trail.”

“He hasn’t made many mistakes yet, and we can’t bet on him making any. We have to be more prepared,” Miles said.  

“We don’t know what his end game is, but he gave us a lot more insight into his mind today, and we’ll be able to use that against him,” Heridas said, and Winry appreciated his optimism, because she wasn’t feeling any of it right now.  

“We need to look deeper into Gustav’s background. He clearly has some vendetta with Mustang, and now, by association, Edward and Alphonse.”

“We can handle it,” Edward mumbled.

“Don’t be so cavalier with your lives,” Miles said, pressing his lips together. “This man is dangerous.”

“You’re really Ishvalan?” Mustang interjected. “This isn’t some-”

“Some what?” Edward said, spinning back to Mustang. “Some prank? Like I’d go around joking that my own mother’s ethnicity meant that I was _lucky_ to survive the Ishvalan extermination. That Alphonse should be dead, if Order 3066 was carried out properly? Yeah, that’s really something to joke about _, General_.”

Al placed his hand on his Edward’s shoulder, “It’s okay, Brother.” And Edward nodded, taking a few deep breaths.

Mustang froze, mouth gaping, but didn’t say anything else, apparently unwilling to face Edward’s wrath.

But Havoc had no such qualms and sauntered over to Edward, “You don’t look half-Ishvalan.” And Miles huffed.

“Can we interrogate the boy after we figure this out?” Miles said.

“I’m lucky,” Edward said to Havoc, ignoring Miles. “I have my father’s looks. Otherwise…” Edward trailed off, and Winry knew what he meant. And that made her blood run cold.

But Edward smiled at Winry and Alphonse.  

“It was a long time ago,” he said, tilting his head. “Let’s focus on Gustav first.”

And Winry was reminded of his resilience when he’d first begun the automail process. Sure, they’d been good friends before, but she’d never understood the scope of his persistence and determination until he’d begun his monumental task of bringing Alphonse’s body back. Edward inspired her to be better. Obviously he was a real jerk sometimes, and he banged up her automail way more than she liked, but hey, no one was perfect.  

“Good idea, but first, let’s get out of here,” Heridas said, gesturing around the _Zikkaron_. “Being found here wouldn’t reflect well on any of us.”

But rather than retreating back towards the main gates, Edward and Alphonse turned towards the debris that had once been a testament to the strength of their family.

Winry still didn’t understand why they hadn’t told anyone their true relation to the _Vaidya_ family, but she dismissed it as an Ishvalan custom she probably didn’t understand. That explanation was more pleasant to entertain than to acknowledge that the Elrics still struggled to trust anyone with their secrets, even Winry.

Winry made no effort to exit either, instead watching Edward’s and Al’s backs, which leaned into each other, as they bowed their heads. But after a minute of silence, they left their family’s plot behind, walking back to Winry with their eyes glued to the ground. She joined their even steps, so they walked through the _Zikkaron_ in a row: Edward, Alphonse, and Winry, like it had been ever since the Elrics had moved in next door and brightened her dull Resembool life.

“It’s okay, Al. We’ll rebuild it, and it’ll be even bigger than before,” Edward said. He infused excitement into his words, but they both knew that it was an act.

“It’s okay to be sad, Brother,” Al said, leaning his head on Winry’s shoulder. It made walking a bit awkward, but she didn’t complain. “We can rebuild tomorrow, but today… we’re allowed to be sad.”

“Keep moving forward,” Edward said. “We’ll do that. We always have.”

They climbed over the rubble where the stone gate used to be, and after they passed over it, the rest of the group stared at the three of them expectantly.

“That was a grave of someone close to you?” Havoc asked.

“In a way,” Edward said. “It’s more of a tribute to the family and their longevity.”

“The _Zikkaron_ more resembles a graveyard than it ever used to,” Heridas said, shaking his head. “After all, there are so few ancient families remaining.”

“Ancient families?” Havoc asked, as they began their walk back to the inn at a much slower pace than the sprint there earlier. The air was colder than it had been throughout the afternoon, and the sky was transitioning from pale blue to a murky grey, as the day gradually morphed into night.

Heridas briefly explained about Ishvalan ancient families, reminding them that it would be a drastic simplification to compare them to the Amestrian upper class. Rather, ancient families were held up to loftier expectations to act like ideal Ishvalan citizens, engaging in charity, volunteering, and learning. Through these pursuits, the ancient families were well-respected contributors to their towns’ management, with the heads of the families often on the Council of their particular town or city.

“Then will that family recreate the damaged display? Is that something that’s done?” Miles asked.

“Not usually,” Heridas said, slowing his pace so he walked in step with Miles. “But there’s no precedent for it either. The Amestrian army mostly stayed away from the _Zikkaron_ , because of all the ghost stories.” He squinted at the sky. “I think there was an earthquake about a hundred years ago that may have damaged some of them, but none so… completely. Those fixes were more to repair than to rebuild.”

“Are there any remaining members of that family?” Miles asked Edward and Alphonse.

“I’m not sure,” Edward said, his face twisting, and Alphonse looked away. “We’ll see, I guess.”

“Many ancient lines ended during the War,” Heridas said. “Which family is this?”

Edward squirmed but answered, “ _Vaidya_.”

“I see,” Heridas said, and then his eyes widened. He stopped walking. The group continued for a few paces before stopping as well, glancing back at Heridas’ stillness. They weren’t far from the inn now, but they’d taken the long way back through the outskirts, which assured them that they wouldn’t encounter any passersby.

“That family- Edward, that’s not… that can’t be yours, is it?”

“Why do you ask that?” Edward asked, crossing his arms across his chest.  

“You told Miles that you had some vague acquaintance with the family you visited, and it seemed reasonable enough.” Heridas scrunched his face, and a flutter of nerves passed through Winry. “But after that kind of reaction today, I started thinking, and I seem to remember hearing about a minor scandal in the _Vaidya_ family regarding their youngest daughter…” He trailed off, sudden understanding gleaming in his eyes.

And a cold smile spread on Edward’s face.

“That’s right,” Edward said. “That was my family’s memorial, our _Mikdash_. The last vestige of them in Ishval at all. Destroyed by an Amestrian, as it often seems to be.”

Although everyone else’s attention was on Edward, Edward’s focus was fixated solely on Heridas, as he pointedly not glanced at the Amestrians. Alphonse stood silently by Winry’s side, but he’d grabbed onto Winry’s arm and started squeezing it, though Winry barely registered the pressure.

“I’m sorry,” Heridas said. “I’m sorry for your loss. Are you the _Yarash?_ ”

“Yeah, and they’re probably rolling over in their graves right now. Metaphorically, obviously, because they didn’t have graves,” Edward said with a sneer. He spoke only to Heridas, but in the silence, his voice carried through the fading twilight. “The _Netzach,_ who was my grand uncle, would have hated having a half-Amestrian as his heir, but”- an icy smile graced his lips- “beggars can’t be choosers.”

Winry couldn’t ever remember Edward acting like this. Sure, he was known for blurting things out in his anger, but, despite his general reluctance towards secret-keeping, he’d concealed his Ishvalan roots. Now, after all this time, it seemed like a decade of frustration was bubbling to the surface, and she was scared of what he was going to say.  This wasn’t the loud explosive anger that she was familiar with. This was the long stewing contempt that had been simmering for years without any satisfaction.

Breda and Havoc were thunderstruck by Edward’s words. Havoc’s mouth kept opening and closing without any sound coming out. But the self-loathing that was written all over Riza and Mustang’s faces was far worse.

“Edward,” Alphonse said, tugging at his sleeve. Edward nodded to Alphonse, and his posture lost some of its aggression.  

“If I hadn’t just figured it out, were you ever going to say anything?” Heridas asked. “Were you ever going to take your place as a _Yarash_? Or would you just have left the _Vaidya_ family’s _Netzach_ empty forever?”

Edward grunted noncommittally.

“I’m sure we would have come forward eventually,” Alphonse supplied, when it was clear Edward wasn’t going to say anything. “It’s just hard for us, I think. It’s very emotional being back in Ishval and trying to figure out our place in it.

“Because we’re not… quite Ishvalan, you know? Not properly, I mean,” Alphonse fumbled. “Er, does anyone have any questions for us?”

Miles, who’d enjoyed being in on the Elrics’ secret, seemed particularly put out.

“Why did you lie about your family, Elric?” Miles asked.

“Because I didn’t want you to know,” Edward said. “It’s private family business until we make it public.”

Miles nodded slowly and ran his fingers through his spiked ponytail, before turning towards the inn, “Let’s finish this inside.”

The walk back was mostly silent, besides their shoes scraping the sandy roads. Edward, Alphonse, and Winry walked at the back of the pack, and she used the opportunity to hug them again, one arm around each.

“It’ll get easier. You’ll see,” Winry said, pulling them both close.

“You don’t have to be so defensive, Brother,” Al said, leaning over Winry to see Edward. “They don’t want to hurt us or judge us. They’re our friends.”

Edward swallowed and didn’t look at Alphonse. Instead, his eyes found the Ishvalan buildings, lightly-colored and angular, so different from the Resembool center Winry would trek through to get to and from school each day with only the Elrics to accompany her.

“You don’t remember, Al, but when we first moved to Resembool, it was… hard,” Edward said, his eyes glazing over as he recounted the memory. “Everything was different, and the people around town loved to gossip. And the only thing we could do to survive was to become them: Amestrians. It’s not like we chose this; it’s just how it is. We’ll always be more Amestrian than Ishvalan, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“It’s different now, Ed. We can be whatever we want to be,” Alphonse said. “It’s not one or the other- we can be both. Just because we spent most of our life in Amestris doesn’t mean that we’re blind supporters of the Amestrian military, and just because you’re Ishvalan doesn’t mean you have to start hating General Mustang.”

“It’s a lot easier to hate someone when they don’t know why you hate them,” Edward grumbled, and Al frowned.

As the group filed into Abra’s inn, Heridas held the door open for Winry, Ed, and Al.

“I’m sorry for exposing you like that,” Heridas said quietly, as they entered together. “It had just occurred to me, and I became impatient. That was wrong of me, and I apologize.”

“It’s fine,” Edward said, waving him off. “It’s all really my fault. I let that bastard get in my head.”

“Gustav?”

Edward nodded.

“The feeling seems to be mutual,” Heridas said but didn’t explain any further.

As soon as they stepped through the door, Abra took in their morose expressions in a single glance, “What happened? Was anyone injured? The soldiers said that no one had been hurt.”  The worry lines on her face ran deep, and she put down the bowl she’d been stirring. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, like she feared she would collapse.

“No, don’t worry. Everyone is fine,” Miles said.

“Then why do you look like someone has died, dear?” she asked.

“He destroyed our _Mikdash_ ,” Edward said.

“And the whole half-Ishvalan cat is out of the bag,” Miles added.

“Oh! You poor dear,” she said, throwing her arms around Edward. He stiffened at the contact, but didn’t protest, and moments later, she released him and embraced Alphonse, who rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes.

“Thanks,” Al said, and Abra said something angrily in Ishvalan to Edward. Edward laughed, and even Heridas cracked a smile.

“You have quite the mouth on you, Madam,” Heridas said.

“You’re too kind, Cleric Heridas,” she said blushing, before muttering something else in Ishvalan, which made Edward snort.

“Any idea what they’re saying?” Winry whispered to Al.

“Not really.”

“Where are Ariyn Fitzgerald and the Elders?” Edward asked.

“After the soldiers gave the all-clear, they left to assess the long-term structural damage at the main square,” Abra said. “So if you wanted to gather for a while, you’ll be undisturbed.” Edward sighed, and Winry knew that he wanted nothing more than to escape back to their room.

But instead, he turned towards the group, “What do you want to know?”

“You speak Ishvalan?” Mustang asked. Edward nodded.

“Alphonse too?”

“Er, not really,” Al said, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Nonsense!” Abra said. “He’s learning, but he’s not so bad.” She shot a few lines of Ishvalan to him, and Alphonse laughed, before replying slowly.  

“Am I the only one here thinking about Gustav?” Miles asked.

“No, but this is really … something,” Breda said, waving wildly, nearly smacking Havoc in the face.

“Whatever Gustav’s plan is-” Miles began.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Edward said, as he began fiddling with his braid. “He’s probably crazy.”

“Then how did he dig deeper into your past than the Amestrian military, hm?” Miles asked. “Obviously no one from the military found out about you- Ishvalans aren’t supposed to become State Alchemists.”

Edward gave a wry smile, “No, they’re not.”

“What?” Havoc asked, scooting forward in his chair. “What are you talking about?”

Surprisingly, it was Mustang who answered, bearing a pained expression, like every word was poison on his tongue, “Anyone who was more than one-third Ishvalan was banned from becoming a State Alchemist; it was a holdover from the War. Ishvalans don’t aren’t usually alchemists, so it was a non-issue, and it never got repealed after the War. I’m pretty sure most people forgot about it.”

“But you didn’t,” Heridas noted.

“No, I didn’t. I wanted to overturn it, but I never… got around to it.” Mustang grimaced. “That’s a Level 10 offense.”

Havoc whistled.

“That’s punishable by-” Breda began, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“Death,” Edward filled in. “I know.”

Winry couldn’t help her audible gasp. Not that she hadn’t known, of course, but it was painful to remember that, at the age of eleven, Edward had considered the pursuit of Al’s body more important than the possibility of his own execution.

“Is that why you never said anything, Fullmetal?” Mustang asked, pinching the ridge of his nose.

Edward shrugged, “That didn’t help. But it wasn’t the only reason, I guess.” He frowned, seemingly done sharing, but everyone just kept staring at him.

“It’s not personal,” Al said. “It was just easier.”

Winry didn’t know if that was completely true. It _was_ personal. Mustang and Hawkeye had served in the Ishvalan War and carried Ishvalan blood on their hands. That must have factored into their reluctance to divulge the truth.   

And at Mustang’s grimace, Winry assumed that he’d reached the same conclusion. 

“So that’s why you wanted to come to the Accords so badly,” Riza said. She stood side-by-side with Mustang near the window, and although their bodies didn’t touch, they were mirrors of each other. Stiff and tense, and yet their expressions were more exposed than Winry could ever remember seeing them, with their usually hidden demons painted plainly across their faces. For the first time, she could imagine what Mustang had been like after he’d first returned from Ishval, and she wondered if Brigadier General Hughes had also worn that face after the War.

Edward nodded and pulled himself up onto one of the barstools. Al followed next to him, but Winry remained too jittery to sit.  

“Did…. Did you have family in Ishval?” Mustang asked.

“I did,” Edward said, before facing the room. “Look, this is weird, so let’s just clear the air, okay?” He paused and took a deep breath.

“Alphonse and I are half-Ishvalan, because our mother was Ishvalan. She was born in Ishval.” He surveyed the room. “So were Al and I.”

Multiple gasps.

“We were born in a beautiful little town that doesn’t exist anymore. Our immediate family: our parents, Al, and I, were able to escape Ishval before the Amestrian military got to our town, but everyone else we knew was not so lucky. Yes, I can speak Ishvalan. It was my first language, but I’m a little rusty. No, I haven’t been hiding this _exactly_. It’s more like… it never came up, and it’s much easier to acclimate when no one knows you’re different. So, does that pretty much cover the basics?”

“You were born in Ishval?” Breda asked.

“Wow, you’re really slow learners, aren’t you?” Edward said, a half-smile pulling at his lips. “Yes.”

“How old were you when you left?” Breda asked.

“I was five. Al was four. The War was almost over then.”

“Holy shit,” Breda said.

“You’ve been through some real shit,” Havoc said. “Even more than we thought.”

“How’d you escape Ishval?” Mustang asked, and Riza nodded.

“I’ve been wondering the same,” Heridas confessed, leaning against the far wall. In the dwindling light of the day, his body was covered in shadows, but his x-shaped scar shone from across the room as he frowned. “Not many escaped the Southern region with their lives.” He shook his head towards Mustang. “Thanks for that.”

“You’re from the Southern region?” Mustang asked, his voice cracking. “The South?”

“I don’t-what does that mean?” Havoc whispered to Breda, but since the room was quiet, everyone heard it.

“The Southern region of Ishval was one of the first places the State Alchemists were sent,” Mustang recited lifelessly. “They,” he began, before shaking his head.

“We,” Mustang corrected dully, “were instructed to kill every man, woman, and child directly. By the end of the War, our orders prioritized efficiency, but in the South, it was more… personal.”

Havoc shook his head, “I don’t understand.” He reached into his pocket for a cigarette. He didn’t light it but fiddled with it between his fingers.

“By the end of the war, the Amestrians were sick of the fighting,” Riza said, easily picking up where Mustang left off. “So they chose the easiest methods of killing massive amounts of people relatively quickly, like poisoning the water supply or destroying crops. It was much faster than sending entire units through every single Ishvalan town and laying waste to them, house by house. But with broad methods of…extermination, people will slip through the cracks. There were far fewer survivors in the Southern Region, because it was more of a testing site for the massive power of alchemy than even a war zone.”

“The real fighting wasn’t in the South,” Edward said. “The seven year near-stalemate was mostly closer to the Amestrian border to the north. Then the alchemists came in and blasted the Ishvalan defense to pieces. By the time the soldiers reached the Southern region, there wasn’t anyone left to guard it.  The Ishvalan forces had mostly fled east toward Kanda, anyway, because that was more strategically important. ‘Cause the South didn’t have any major cities, war manufacturing plants, or even as much population.

“It was a long conflict, you know? Most of the men of fighting age had already left to go help the other fronts years before, and I imagine that, by that point, they were mostly dead. They’d left the South defenseless to go defend Ishval, but when we were in trouble, the Ishvalan forces left us to die.” Edward shook his head. “My point is that there was only a skeletal defense in the South, which made it the perfect place to test alchemy…” He trailed off and stared at an empty spot on the wall. It was the most Winry had ever heard him say about the Ishvalan War itself.

“I know it’s not worth anything, but I’m sorry,” Mustang said, burying his head in his hands. His shoulders trembled, and for a moment, Winry thought Riza was going to comfort him. But she didn’t, instead focusing on her own trembling fingers.   

“I think it is worth something,” Alphonse said. “I think it’s worth something that you’re here now, and trying to atone however you can.”

“It doesn’t take away from what happened,” Heridas said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Al agreed quickly. “But it _is_ something.”

“Something,” Edward echoed emotionlessly.  

“Brother?” Al said, and Winry put her hand on Edward’s shoulder. He grabbed it. His hand was smooth and warm, and no longer automail. She squeezed it gently.

“This is the reason I never said anything,” Edward said, after a few minutes of silence. “Because bringing up the past is… painful.” Edward looked pained just trying to get the words out. “And it’s like… the past is always going to exist the way it is, and there’s nothing anyone can do to make that disappear. It’s easier to move on when you don’t dwell on it.”

Abra cleared her throat suggestively, “You’ve been ignoring the past and pretending it doesn’t exist. There’s a difference, dear. But coming back to Ishval is a good first step. After all, it’s more than a lot of Ishvalans are able to do right now.”

“What do you mean?” Breda asked.

“Ishval can bring back a lot of painful memories for people,” Abra said with a sad smile. The dark bags under her eyes suddenly made her look older than Winry remembered. Abra closed her eyes for a moment, and when she reopened them, her red eyes reminded Winry of Aunt Trisha’s, gentle and compassionate. Even if Abra _was_ a busybody like Winry had never met before.

“Some Ishvalans will probably never return,” Abra continued. “It’s a place where they lost everything, so I can understand why people wouldn’t want to come back.”

“But you returned,” Edward said. “You said that you had to.”

“I did,” Abra said. “I lost so much during the War- my home, my husband, my children- so it would’ve been easy to stay away. But I couldn’t. From the very moment I left, Ishval was like a siren’s call. You can leave, but you’ll always feel it trying to pull you home.”

It was a nice thought, but Winry couldn’t imagine a place holding that much meaning to her.

“What’s everyone standing around for?” a shrill voice rang out.

Ariyn Fitzgerald and the Elders had returned. Elder Vikram sneered, though if Winry was forced to spend that much time with Ariyn, she would also be pretty upset.

No one said anything or even exchanged any meaningful looks. It was though, as one collective, they decided not to share anything they’d learned with Ariyn Fitzgerald. So they made excuses why they were gathered, and then as soon as it was no longer suspicious, they dispersed, with Winry, Edward, and Al fleeing to their room.  

As soon as they closed the door, Alphonse began bawling, unable to mute his cries, even when he buried his face into his hands. Winry pulled him into her arms and rubbed his back, murmuring gentle nothings. She exchanged a concerned look with Edward, but they just let him cry it out.  

“I’m sorry,” Al said, finally pulling away. “I just… I went all that time without crying and now it happens all the time and I can’t even control it and it’s not fair and no one else is crying and-”

“Shut up,” Edward said. “No one gives a damn if you cry all the time, dummy.”

Alphonse hiccupped, “You’re the best, Brother.”

And Edward punched him the arm. Affectionately, of course.

“You got that right!” Edward said with false bravado. Perhaps all of the truth-telling from before had uncorked something in Edward, because he distracted Alphonse from his tears by engaging him in a story of Hohenheim entertaining their cousins with alchemic feats.

“Didn’t that make your family unhappy? Don’t Ishvalans think alchemy defies the will of Ishvala?” Winry asked.

“It varies a lot, but not all of them. Most people in our family had a… grudging acceptance of alchemy. But even if they were okay with a few parlor tricks, they didn’t want people in their family to learn anything about it.”

“Would they dislike us then, Brother?” Al asked.

“Speak for yourself! I’m not an alchemist anymore,” Edward said, smirking, but before Alphonse could interject (or heavens forbid, begin crying again), he laughed.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Edward said, running his fingers up and down his braid. “They accepted that bastard Hohenheim, didn’t they?”

“Will you ever stop calling him that, Ed?” Alphonse asked with a sigh, and Edward shook his head.

“He never stopped being a bastard so no.”

“He saved all of Amestris,” Al said, but it was the kind of argument where they just went through the motions of disagreeing. Neither of their hearts were really in it because, over the past year, they’d poured over this topic numerous times.  

“Yeah, I guess that was okay of him,” Edward forced out between clenched teeth. “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t destroy our family.”

That was as much of a compliment as Edward would give to his father, and Alphonse didn’t press the issue. For Winry, whose memories of Hohenheim were faded, his only legacy was the pain he’d bestowed on Edward and Alphonse, and she couldn’t ever forgive him for that. Maybe it was unfair, considering how much understanding she lent to Heridas, but it was different. Watching someone else’s pain was often more devastating than bearing it yourself.

The day’s excitement had worn Alphonse down, so he fell asleep long before Edward and Winry, who snuck out so they wouldn’t disturb him. They headed downstairs but paused at the sound of voices filtering through from the lounge. Mustang and Hawkeye.

Although Winry didn’t mind sitting with them, the split-second of horror that crossed Edward’s face made Winry shake her head and point upwards. So they climbed back through the inn until they reached the roof.

Much like in Resembool, the whole sky and all of the stars were visible here. They twinkled distantly and made Winry feel small, something that had happened a lot since she’d left Resembool for the first time. But she liked the feeling; it reminded her that she was just a small cog in the universe.

They didn’t say anything for a while. The roof wasn’t very large, so Edward leaned over the edge, and sat down letting his legs dangle, and Winry joined him. It was narrow, so their shoulders brushed against each other.

“Now what?” Edward asked softly.

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what to do now, Winry,” he said. “Everyone knows about me and Al, and it’s like my head hasn’t stopped spinning since I saw my family’s monument in the _Zikkaron_ in pieces _._ And now that everything’s out in the open, I think that everyone’s going to look at me to have the answers, and honestly, Winry, I don’t even know what’s going on in my life, never mind Ishval. I mean, I’ve always had a set path in front of me, but now I don’t have any idea.”

“Then let’s make it simple! What are your options?” Winry asked _._

“I don’t know,” Edward said, staring up at the dark sky. “I don’t know anything.”

“You know a lot of things, Ed,” she said, but he huffed.

“I knew alchemy, but what else?”

“Edward, you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Alchemy or no alchemy, you could do anything you wanted to do,” she said and before she could change her mind, she leaned her head against his shoulder. She tried to make it look nonchalant, but she could feel her heartbeat in her ears, as she wondered if he would push her off. But he didn’t.

For a minute, it was quiet, and all she could hear was his rhythmic breathing.

“You haven’t figured it out yet, but I’m nothing special,” Edward said, so quietly she wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear it.

“Listen here, Edward Elric!” Winry said, reluctantly pulling her head off of him. “No pity parties! You are smart and you’re my best friend and I don’t know where this bullshit is coming from, but I won’t listen to any more of it, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Edward said, and as he gave her an informal salute, his lips loosened into a light smile. He relaxed his shoulders and stared at the sky again. The Ishvalan air was cooler at nighttime, but it was still pleasant, like the early days of autumn back home.

“I just don’t know if I’m doing this right. Everyone here. Ishval. Alphonse. My life. We’re not homunculi- our lives are short and precious. How do I know what I should do?”

“You’ve always had a goal,” Winry said. “And now that Alphonse doesn’t need you like he did, you can live your own life. You can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Edward said, swinging his dangling legs back and forth.

“Well, if you could see ten years into the future with a magic mirror, what would you want to see?” she asked, and as the words came out, she suddenly realized that it was a really personal question.

“Magic mirror?” Edward asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up, moron, just answer the question.”

A pause.

“I’d want to see Alphonse happy and Ishval restored and …” He trailed off.

“I don’t think this is about Ishval, is it?” Winry asked, and Edward shook his head.

“No. Or maybe a little? It’s just that I don’t have anything I’m good at besides alchemy,” Edward said, his words suddenly rushing together. “Alchemy always came naturally to me: like I was meant to do it. Like you and your automail, gearhead.”

Winry couldn’t hold in a laugh. The boy who joined the military at age twelve was asking her for advice on the direction of his life. Those round golden eyes seemed younger now than they did then.

“You don’t have to be ‘good’ at everything you do, moron. What makes you happy?”

Edward shrugged.

“Think about Brigadier General Hughes,” she said softly. “He was a good soldier, of course, but that’s not why he _lived_. He found his meaning in his family, so that was the center of his entire life. You just have to figure out what that is for you.”

She didn’t directly ask him about it, though it wasn’t out of consideration of his privacy. Instead, it was cowardice. But Edward answered the unspoken question anyway.

“I’m happiest... in Ishval? No, that’s not right. Ishval is more… soothing than happy. But I should probably stay here during the reconstruction, right?”

“If you want to,” Winry said.

“I do,” he said, nodding to himself. “You’re staying too, right? For automail stuff?”

“Yeah, I want to help out too. I can do a lot of good here, more than I can do in Resembool right now. I’ve been talking with the boy from the explosion a lot, Abram, and he’s really interested in getting automail! I told him that it’s painful and it’ll be a long road, but he wants to get back on his feet. Well, metaphorically because he lost his arm, not his leg.” Winry covered her mouth with her hand.

“Oops, that came out wrong!” but Edward just sniggered.

“I’ve seen so many people here who could use automail,” Winry continued. “On their hands or legs or arms… I couldn’t leave without doing all I could. And there are a few people who’ve said that they know Ishvalans with automail, but that it hasn’t been well-maintained. So that could be a whole ‘nother project. I’ve been talking with Dr. Khosla, and maybe I could set up a little shop out of his clinic. He already knows a whole bunch of people I could start talking to, and I don’t just have to limit it to Kedesh either! He told me about this teenage girl who lost both of her arms and-” Winry paused. “Sorry I just went off and-”

“You’re amazing, Winry,” he said, and Winry ducked her head.

They shared a comfortable silence. Her legs were starting to fall asleep, as was the rest of her, so she knew she should go inside. And yet, sitting here, side-by-side with Edward, was so pleasant that she didn’t want to move. It was easy underneath the open expanse of sky to forget about all of the pain they’d been through and whatever danger that may be coming. All that mattered up here was the stars and Edward.

“When are you happiest, Winry?” Ed asked, after she’d assumed he’d already fallen asleep.

“When I’m with my automail.”

“Of course,” Edward said, rolling his eyes.

“When I’m with Granny…. When I’m with you.” She watched his reaction carefully. The way his eyes widened and the blush that even the darkness of the night couldn’t hide. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “And Alphonse,” Winry tacked on, because she was a chicken.

“I’m happiest when I’m with you too, Win,” Edward said quietly. So quietly Winry thought it could have just been her imagination, but she turned and saw Ed’s face was broken out in a deep maroon.

Winry didn’t know why she did it. Or why she hadn’t ever done it before. All she knew was that it felt natural in this moment, and it was suddenly the right thing to do.

Under the crescent moon and the star-laden sky, Winry Rockbell leaned over and gave Edward Elric a peck on the cheek. His face was warm, and her lips were dry. And she couldn’t avoid the deep blush on her face, but she was delighted to see the same mirrored on Edward’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! So… what did you think? It’s all out in the open now, but the ramifications certainly aren’t over! 
> 
> Hm… I wonder what Roy Mustang is really thinking, so next week we’ll find out with his POV!
> 
> Side note: I am a military history nerd. So I absolutely took some creative liberties to create my version of the Ishvalan War. The canon doesn’t get much into the details of the military specifics (because why would it?) so it was honestly so much fun to sit down and figure out exactly how the war could have gone down, given what we know in canon. Having such a long war over a small location, as well as the logistical particulars of the extermination itself, were a bit difficult to maneuver, but I’d love to hear what you thought of it. Especially from my fellow military history buffs!


	10. Roy Mustang III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE!!!! 
> 
> This chapter references the FMA Bonus Episode, “Yet Another Man’s Battlefield.” So if you haven’t seen it, check it out! I mean, if you haven’t seen it and you don’t want to, you’ll understand everything just fine, because it’s a pretty small piece of the chapter. But I highly recommend it anyway, because it’s just awesome. 
> 
> Back to your regularly scheduled fanfic

Roy Mustang couldn’t sleep. Again.

Of course, insomnia wasn’t unusual for Mustang. He’d experienced his fair share of horrors- and had inflicted many as well- so he had enough nightmare material for a dozen men.

But being in Ishval had made it even worse. Although the nighttime was cooler than the sweltering days, the dry Ishvalan heat still pressed down onto his chest when the sun was down, suffocating him as he closed his eyes. It had been a foreign sensation when he’d first been shipped to Ishval and feeling its distinctive grasp reminded him of the War in a visceral way.

However, the reason Roy Mustang couldn’t sleep had nothing to do with the heat or his nightmares. This time it was all about the Elrics.

This wasn’t the first time the Elric brothers had kept him from sleeping, of course. Over the years, those two brats (one brat and one kind young man) had caused him a lot of worry, from tales of their recklessness on missions to making sure the higher-ups weren’t paying too close attention to their antics to just wondering whether they would get their bodies back. But none of those things were causing his insomnia either.

Instead, it was the Ishvalan heritage the two bore that kept Mustang tossing and turning, the heritage that Mustang had never known about. Mustang, Hawkeye, Havoc, and Breda had been up late last night, first talking about the Elrics, and then abandoning the uncomfortable topic, in favor of playing cards and pointedly avoiding any discussion on Ishval at all.

Eventually, as the sun spread across his bed sheets, Mustang realized he had lain awake all night, so he decided to give up and get out of bed. Which, of course, was exactly when he fell asleep. And just moments later, or at least that was how it felt, he was forced to rise for the day. All of this culminated in a foul mood, exacerbated by the Ishvalans’ distaste for coffee. Although he’d been going without his caffeine fix for a while already, today was a day he could have really used it. 

“You look awful, boss,” Havoc said with a grin.

“Thanks, I feel it,” Mustang said with a scowl. But before he greeted anyone else, he smoothed out his features, combed his hair down, and fixed his crooked uniform. There was nothing he could do about the bags underneath his eyes, so it would have to do. There was no point in parading his weakness around, especially to Ariyn Fitzgerald, who’d been awfully quiet recently. She was scheming; he could feel it.

So Mustang was unsurprised when he noticed Ariyn Fitzgerald’s shit-eating grin, visible the moment he entered the lounge for breakfast that morning. She was speaking to one of the newly arrived soldiers from Central, and he didn’t seem too thrilled by her attention. He was young and baby-faced but wore an uneasy expression he hadn’t quite learned how to hide yet.

As soon as he spotted Mustang, however, he leaped up and saluted. His form was precise and practiced, the way that Mustang’s had once been. Ishval had been good at training out the religious adherence to formality he’d carried throughout his time at the academy. At Mustang’s appearance, Ariyn Fitzgerald smiled and rose lazily. She sent a long look toward the soldier, before grabbing a piece of bread and leaving the inn altogether.

“At ease,” Mustang said, his gaze following Ariyn’s exit.

“Yes, sir!”

The shouting enthusiasm made his ears ring, but he too grabbed a bite to eat and settled into Ariyn’s previous seat.

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling?” Mustang asked.

“My shift ended at dawn, sir!”

Was he ever this much of a suck up? The answer came swiftly and in the form of Maes Hughes’ mocking voice: _Aw, Roy, you were much worse._

“What’s your name, kid?” Mustang asked, and he was pleased to see the shadow of a frown at the diminutive.

“Second Lieutenant James Darrow, sir!”

Right, of course. This was their most experienced soldier among the Central troops, a lieutenant with no field experience.

“Take a seat, James,” Mustang said and patted the seat next to him, trying to channel Fuhrer Grumman, who’d always been good at this kind of thing.  After a healthy pause for gaping, Darrow slid into the chair beside him.  

“So, why’d you join the military, James?” Mustang asked.

“Um,” he began, his voice shaky. “My father was Colonel Anton Darrow, sir. He was killed in Aerugo about ten years back. He’d always spoken highly of the military, and so it felt like the right path for me, sir.”

“I’m guessing that spending all of your time in an office filing paperwork wasn’t in your to-do list, then, was it?” Mustang asked with a smirk, and Darrow narrowed his eyes slightly.

“I knew that I’d be assigned according to my best use in the military, sir, but during this time on assignment in Ishval, I hope to impress you, sir, and if my abilities are best served outside of office work, I’d be most pleased to hear it.”

Mustang always appreciated ambition. Maybe because it reminded him of his younger self. But Mustang didn’t have any more time to spend on Darrow, not when everything else was going to hell, so he’d just have to be direct.

“What did Representative Fitzgerald ask of you?”

A flash of alarm and then James Darrow schooled his expression back to neutral, but Mustang had been playing this game for almost as many years as this kid had been alive.

“Nothing, sir. She just wanted to check on the soldiers and the military’s efforts, sir. I assured her that it was none of her concern, sir. I didn’t tell her anything, sir.”

Mustang was pleased that, even though the past year had held very little excitement, he still had all of his old skills, which had been carefully crafted by Fuhrer Grumman. Although this kid wouldn’t confess to Mustang what Ariyn asked, he did refuse her outright. That was something. Although Mustang could order James Darrow to tell him (and he was almost positive Darrow would break instantly), there was no need for that now.

It would be much more helpful to have someone keeping an eye on the soldiers and reporting back to Mustang, someone from inside the ranks.

“Second Lieutenant James Darrow,” Mustang said in his boastful official voice he reserved for official military business. “Thank you for telling me about Representative Fitzgerald’s actions. I know that she wants what’s best for Ishval and the safety of all our soldiers. I want to make sure that all of the troops out here are faring adequately in the Ishvalan heat and will be able to appropriately reflect the might of the Amestrian military. I want you, Lieutenant Darrow, to inform me if anyone is having trouble in the heat and will be unable to perform their duty sufficiently. Can you do that for me, Lieutenant?”

“General Mustang, I don’t-”

“This is extremely crucial to our success in Ishval, Lieutenant. Can you do that for me?”

A glimmer of understanding reflected back at Mustang, and he was given the affirmative. Mustang sent Lieutenant Darrow on his way, hoping he would understand. It was the same kind of bullshit Grumman loved to pull on Mustang. The kind that made Mustang question whether there was even an assignment or whether Grumman was just crazy. It would hopefully get Darrow to report back to him if anything suspicious went down, especially because Mustang didn’t like the look Ariyn Fitzgerald had flashed as she was leaving.

And if James Darrow was able to be his eyes and ears among the soldiers, well, Darrow would find himself with a promotion in no time.

“Very well done, General,” a calm voice whispered, and Mustang found Major Miles smirking down at him. “You’re a natural.”

“So are you,” Mustang replied thoughtlessly. At Miles’ surprised expression, he elaborated. “Differently, of course, but you’ve fit well into the military.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Miles said.

“Likewise.”

There was no world in which Mustang could imagine focusing on the Ishvalan Accords at a time like this: Ariyn was plotting, the Elrics were Ishvalan, and, of course, Marius Gustav was still seeking blood. (Despite Hawkeye landing a shot on him yesterday, it hadn’t been fatal, so Mustang wouldn’t rest until he saw Gustav’s body himself.).

Yet, Ariyn Fitzgerald was enthusiastically pushing forward with the Ishvalan Accords. And although it was against his best instincts, Mustang knew that their best chance at ending Gustav was to lure him out of hiding while he was still injured. Then they could distract him with enough of the Amestrian soldiers to allow Mustang to finish the job. Considering that they still had no idea where Gustav was hiding out, this was their only opportunity to catch him, though it would be, unfortunately, on his terms.  

“If he attacks, all you need is a moment of a clear shot,” Hawkeye said, as they discussed it before they left the inn as part of the Accords delegation.

“Are we playing bait then, Captain Hawkeye?” Mustang asked.

“I’m merely remarking that it presents an unexpected opportunity, does it not?” she asked, tilting her head. The Hawkeye head tilt, as he called it, was one of her trademark giveaways that she was joking. It was incredibly subtle, but Mustang thought that it suited her.  

The Elrics, regardless of whether they wanted to, were forced to join their trek for their own safety. (Abra’s inn, while homey, wasn’t exactly an impenetrable fortress.) Edward grumbled, though Alphonse confessed to Hawkeye in a lowered voice that Edward had wanted to come anyway but just didn’t want to be forced to. Mustang filed that tidbit away for use later, more out of habit than anything else.

The delegation was accompanied by half of the Amestrian soldiers. Mustang supposed that they could be useful, possibly. Maybe. If every other fighter with them had simultaneous heart attacks.

But the most obvious consequence of their presence was the unwanted attention that they got from the Kedeshian citizens. As the group marched through town, the Ishvalans parted and gawked. If the Amestrians had thought that they’d received a lot of stares before, it was nothing compared to now. People gaped at the procession, leaning over walls and windows to watch them, their red eyes reflecting their fear, anger, and confusion.  One teenage girl froze as they passed, a bite of fruit halfway to her lips, her eyes watching their movements unblinkingly.  

This was exactly why he’d protested soldiers in Ishval. It was the last thing they needed for morale, even with Gustav on the loose, but Mustang knew unquestionable orders when he heard them. If Fuhrer Grumman was a lesser man, he’d wonder if the excessive protection was because of his granddaughter’s presence, but Grumman had always been able to effectively compartmentalize his personal life and his military career.

It was a relief to finally clear the town, enter the fields, and leave the intense glares behind them. Although the fields were also filled with Ishvalans, they were mostly busy working and didn’t have time to ogle at their presence.  

As they passed the Ishvalan outposts, Major Miles gave them a quick summary of the agricultural difficulties so far. Only the most resilient plants would grow in the harsh desert climate, so the Ishvalan struggle had often been focused on growing enough food to create a balanced diet. So far, Kedesh had become largely self-sustainable, but they didn’t have enough hands to grow additional food for trading.

An unimportant piece of the empire, Mustang could imagine Ariyn Fitzgerald complaining.

Great. As if one Ariyn Fitzgerald wasn’t bad enough, he now had one in his head.

But surprisingly enough, while Mustang listened carefully to Miles and the Ishvalan guides, Ariyn was already three steps ahead, asking about the different crops they’d tried so far and what agricultural techniques they had used.

Mustang shot a confused look to Hawkeye.

“She’s the Head of the East. What do you expect? Her region is the agricultural center of Amestris,” she said.

Ah. So this was Ariyn’s element. While Ariyn jabbered on, Mustang followed the conversation the best that he could, as they trudged through the fields and were introduced to various important people. Mustang greeted and spoke with them, but they soon became a whirlwind of names and faces, all sporting red eyes.

“Your fake smile is slipping,” Hawkeye muttered out of the corner of her mouth. Mustang gave no indication he’d heard her, except that he attempted to more naturally engage with the Ishvalans, who’d taken time out of their busy schedules to speak with them. Mustang understood this and tried to be respectful, but he was also tired and his minimal energy was mostly wasted staring at shadows, waiting for the Sand Alchemist to strike.

“You’re right,” Ariyn Fitzgerald said, her political smile etched across her face. “Amestrian cotton has no chance of growing in these conditions, but Cretan cotton has become much more popular in recent years. It requires a lower density of the soil, and it thrives in drier terrain, much like I’m seeing here. Considering the recent escalating tensions with Creta, Amestris should leap at the chance to get Cretan cotton without having to deal with Creta.

“And are those wheat crops I spot?  After a few consecutive years of bad yields about a decade ago, many Amestrian wheat farmers switched crops, and since then, most of Amestris’ wheat supply has to be imported. If you had a larger workforce and expanded the farming region, you might be able to revolutionize Ishval and its relationship with Amestris through trading.”

Ariyn dominated the discussions, but Mustang didn’t mind. If this was her territory, then let her have it. She was actually engaged, for once, so he couldn’t complain.

By the time the delegation and the accompanying soldiers began walking back to the inn, it was nearly sunset, and Mustang couldn’t wait to go to sleep. It had been a long, boring day.

Edward, Alphonse, and Winry had snuck off sometime mid-morning, when Winry had noticed a young man missing his legs. They’d promised not to go far and to take a sizable amount of soldiers with them, but the soldiers had returned empty-handed soon after.

Mustang just didn’t have the heart to be mad at them, so when they’d returned an hour or so later bearing snacks from the marketplace, he’d let Hawkeye tell them off. Although they did look properly abashed, their still-chewing cheeks made Mustang think they’d do it again in an instant, regardless of the danger. At the very least, they had remained close for the rest of the day.

“Are you ignoring the Elrics?” Major Miles asked, sliding up beside Mustang as they passed the first of four outposts on their path back towards the outskirts of Kedesh.

“What? No!” Mustang fumbled, but his shout grabbed the attention of a few passing Ishvalans, who were leaving the fields after a long day of labor.

“Sure you’re not,” Miles easily agreed. “You’re just not talking to them or acknowledging their existence. Why?”

They walked in step with each other, as the sun began slipping beneath the horizon in a splash of bright reds and purples. The open landscape made the sunset feel like it stretched eternally into the distance, as though the sun would never succumb to the oncoming earth.

“There’s nothing like an Ishvalan sunset,” Miles said, when Mustang didn’t answer. “That’s what my grandfather told me growing up. He was right.”

The about-face was unexpected, as was the tidbit into his life long ago.

“Did you have a hard time at the academy, Major Miles?” Mustang asked.

Miles granted him a frigid smile, “The academy is meant to be a challenge, General Mustang.”

“That means yes then,” Mustang said, too tired for the political mind games. Miles took the hint and dropped the pretenses as well.

“I graduated a few years before you arrived,” Miles said. “Ishvalans weren’t treated any better than they were when you went there. But there were a few more of them in my year, I suppose.”

Mustang nodded but was unwilling to dig any deeper into his own experiences.  

“You knew Heathcliff Erbe, right?” Miles asked abruptly. And Mustang froze, every muscle immediately taut.

“It’s been a long time since I heard that name,” Mustang choked out. And Miles squinted at him, his Ishvalan red eyes glistening under the setting sun.

“That means yes then,” he said.  “He was an acquaintance of mine.”

Images that he’d been trying to hold back flooded his mind. A young Ishvalan cadet at the academy. A friend, even, who’d left the military during the Extermination and had gone home to protect Ishval. And then the icy, unfamiliar red eyes on that fateful last day Mustang had seen Heathcliff. When Heathcliff had shot at Mustang, and Hughes had killed Heathcliff instead.

Mustang had stared down death that day, but he would never forget the hatred and desperation in Heathcliff’s eyes as he’d fired on Mustang. In one lifetime they’d been friends. In the next, bitter enemies. And for what?

“You knew him?” Mustang asked, torn between curiosity and a desperation to cover up a long aggravated wound.

“Not well,” Miles said, glancing Mustang up and down. “He liked you though. We exchanged correspondence while he was at the academy. He wanted advice… for obvious reasons.”

“He liked me?” Mustang asked.

“Of course. You were friends once, yes?”

Mustang nodded.

“But after he deserted, I never spoke with him again,” Miles said.

“What did you tell him?” Mustang asked. “What did he want advice about?”

“Many things. Some private, some…” Miles trailed off. “He asked me what the field was like for people like us. And he wanted to know how I did it. How I kept my head down and never caused a scene. How I never fought back, never giving them the flimsiest excuse to expel me.”

“Did you tell him to desert?” Mustang asked, and Miles glared at him.

“Do you think I would? I didn’t desert after all,” Miles said angrily, but then the emotion flooded out, and Miles sighed. They passed the next outpost, and Mustang noticed that the walk back was passing much quicker than he’d anticipated. Miles and Mustang lingered at the back of the group, though they were still within range of the soldiers “guarding” them. 

“Heathcliff was half-Ishvalan, so he fell under Order 3066,” Miles said. “If he didn’t desert, the military would have quietly done away with him anyway, so I don’t blame him. If he’d been a bit older, I might have gotten General Armstrong to bring him north to Briggs with us, but he wasn’t experienced enough for that to make sense to the higher-ups. But…” Miles turned to Mustang.

Major Miles was always serious, but he seemed especially solemn.

“Heathcliff’s family still lived in Ishval. There was nothing I could have said to get him out of that fight. It was his war to join. I can’t say that, if I had known my Ishvalan family, I wouldn’t have done the same.”

Mustang nodded, “I never blamed him. His actions made sense. Defend your land from invaders: pretty simple military theory. But he made me question mine.” Mustang paused and gave a wry smile. “Once upon a time I thought I knew right from wrong.”

“You still do,” Miles said, his gaze pointed up at the dwindling Ishvalan sunset. “You always have; you just learned how to silence it for authority.”

Mustang felt the urge to defend himself and pushed it away, but Miles seemed frustrated by his silence.

“I am hardly the pinnacle of righteousness in the world, but I’ve made my choices, and now I have to live with them. I know you have found the same,” Miles said. “So why are you ignoring the Elric brothers?” 

Mustang didn’t bother trying to explain the way his heart clenched when he saw Edward and Alphonse smile. The way he felt when he imagined the struggles that they faced because of him and his military. The way Mustang knew that he should be begging on his knees to even be in the same room as them. He had committed a sin, and karma was a bitch.

But Miles didn’t want to hear about his pity party, so Mustang said nothing.

“Let me wager a guess then, General,” Miles said. They passed the last outpost, and he could see the shimmering lights of Kedesh close by. The sky had darkened, and the sun had slipped out of sight, but it was too early for the sky to be painted with stars yet. The heat would dissipate in an hour (as much as it ever did), so Mustang’s uniform still stuck to his neck and back as though it were mid-afternoon. And though Miles strutted like he was unaffected by the warmth, Mustang imagined that after years at Briggs, it must be a difficult, ongoing adjustment.

“You have now realized that in a different life, in a different world, in a different set of circumstances, you would have killed Edward and Alphonse without a second thought. You would have their blood on your hands, much as you have Heathcliff’s, even if you did not pull the trigger. And worse, you wouldn’t even know what you’d have lost. They would just be two more Ishvalan children, added to your collection.

“Although you remember some of the faces of the people you’ve killed, you never knew their stories. Their goals. Their dreams. And, of course, you are now wondering if you have the Elrics’ family’s blood on your hands. Is that about right?”

Miles didn’t give him the opportunity to answer.

“Understand this, General. Edward and Alphonse have lived with their Ishvalan roots since the day they were born. When they joined the military, they knew who you were. They’ve had many years to settle their dissidence. Ignoring them because _you_ feel uncomfortable looking at them is disrespectful.”

“I-I don’t even know if they want to talk to me,” Mustang said, an unwilling truth escaping from his lips.  

“They’ve known who you are for years, and they haven’t run yet,” Miles said. “Who knows why?”

His piece said, Major Miles sped up to the rest of the group, leaving Mustang to dawdle at the back. But he hadn’t taken four steps on his own when Hawkeye slipped from her own discussion with Elder Shan and Havoc to join him at the rear. Mustang wanted to linger, so Hawkeye followed his lead, as they took small, steady steps together.

Mustang tried to take what Miles said to heart and talk with the Elrics. He’d never been known as a coward before. It was just a conversation, right?

But he didn’t have the opportunity for a while. Dinner was occupied by more agricultural talk, though he could now follow it more closely than he’d been able to in the heat. Ariyn Fitzgerald, strangely helpful, was explaining about an economic trading plan which would mitigate tariffs between Ishval and Amestris.

For someone who’d been complaining about everything Ishvalan for their entire trip, it was certainly a shock but a welcome one. Mustang wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if he suspected she had other motivations.

As people began trickling upstairs to their rooms, Mustang realized that only his men (that Hawkeye was included in ‘his men’ was implied), the Elrics, Miss Rockbell, and Major Miles remained.

However, Madam Abra was continuously darting in and out of the lounge with an unusually frantic energy.

“You know that little boy who sometimes comes to help me? I can’t find him.” She didn’t sound too alarmed but continued searching immediately. Soon they all pitched in to find the boy, who was soon discovered asleep in Madam Abra’s bed.

“That brat,” Abra muttered, but she didn’t wake him. She just closed her door quietly and crept away.

“Is he an orphan?” Edward asked her, as they settled back into the lounge.

Abra nodded, “He lives with his older sister. She’s… almost twenty, I think, so she takes care of him. But she spends a lot of time working, so I watch him during the day, when he’s not in school. He’ll do some chores, and I’ll give him a bit of money.” Abra sighed.

“What happened to his parents?” Edward asked. It was the question they all wanted to ask, but no one was bold enough to inquire. Except Edward.

“You’re a true Ishvalan,” Abra said with a loud snort. She covered her nose with her hands but didn’t seem too embarrassed or alarmed.

“What?”

“I told you, don’t you remember? Us Ishvalans don’t like to beat it around the bush. Instead of saying ‘how are you?’ we like to lead off with ‘what’s your story?’ It’s much more important, don’t you think? It’s how we make sense of the world.”

Edward ducked his head, and Abra continued, “Gilad was obviously born after the war. I believe his father was a soldier in the Ishvalan forces, and his mother worked as a doctor. They fled into Aerugo with their daughter, as some of the Ishvalans did. Long story short-”

“I don’t think you know how to tell a short story if your life depended on it,” Winry said, which made Abra laugh again.

“Very true, dear. It used to drive my husband up a wall. Anyway, his parents enlisted again-this time in the Aerugan army- during one of the skirmishes between Amestris and Aerugo a few years back. Both were killed-in-action. Tragic really.” She tutted and shook her head. “Poor kids.”

“Can’t escape your fate,” Edward said morosely. And Abra gave him a good-natured shove.

“They weren’t the only Ishvalans to settle in Aerugo. From what I’ve heard, it was the most open country to Ishvalan refugees once the war started,” Abra said.

“Of course the Aerugans wanted payment,” Miles chimed in. “In the form of knowledge of Amestrian military strategies.”

“It was a fair exchange,” Abra said with a shrug.

This was the first Mustang had heard of this, but he didn’t need to learn the details. There were some things he’d be safer not knowing.

Abra soon left for bed, presumably in an empty room upstairs, considering her own was occupied. And Major Miles followed suit, but not before sending a pointed look towards Mustang.

And then it was just Mustang, Hawkeye, Breda, Havoc, the Elrics, and Miss Rockbell.

Although Mustang felt awkward, the teenagers didn’t notice it at all, at least not at first. They were initially distracted at a card trick Havoc was demonstrating, and the conversation fell from one easy topic to another, any mention of Ishval taboo.

It would have been easy to let it stay there, and Mustang wasn’t sure that he would have had the strength to dampen the mood, but luckily (or unluckily), Hawkeye had no such qualms. So after a very exaggerated story from Havoc about how he rescued a family from a car crash single-handedly (while his legs were still paralyzed), she turned to Fullmetal and Alphonse.

“Have you given more thought as to how Gustav figured out your family background, given that no one in the military had? If it had been that easy, how did no one else know?”

Edward’s face, still smiling from Havoc’s story, froze mid-laugh. His golden eyes sharpened, and watching Edward lock away his emotions made Mustang feel so much older than his years. How could he have never noticed this before?

“I guess it makes me wonder if certain people did know, actually,” Edward said slowly. “It wasn’t much of a secret in Resembool, but why would Father and the homunculi care if I was Ishvalan? I’d performed human transmutation, so all they cared about was keeping the sacrifices close by. If I’d been known as Ishvalan, it would have been a lot harder for them.”

“Does it really matter if anyone knew?” Al asked.

“I guess not,” Edward said. “I mean, it seems likely that, if Gustav stumbled on the information by accident, he wasn’t the first to do so. But maybe not. It’s not like I have a lot of enemies digging through my past for weaknesses, right?”

A pointed look from Alphonse made Edward splutter.

“I do not.”

“Sure, Brother.”

This was natural and easy, and Mustang could almost forget why his stomach kept churning.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to answer,” Havoc said, twirling an unlit cigarette in his fingers. “But, do you mind me asking … what was Ishval like? Before the war? The other Ishvalans don’t like to talk about it, and I was just thinking because, well, we know you and-”

Edward smiled, “I don’t mind, but you might get a better answer out of Madam Abra. She remembers it a lot better than I do. I was still really young when we left.” Edward’s eyes glazed over, seemingly lost in a distant memory.

‘I’d rather hear it from you,” Havoc said, and Edward surveyed them, leaving Mustang’s dark eyes for last. Edward was so different than the boy Mustang had met in Resembool all those years ago. This Fullmetal was older and yet, more open. When he’d first joined the military, he’d been quiet and preferred to keep his head down.

Of course, that didn’t last long. In no time, Mustang and Edward were bickering about everything, and everyone learned that there was nothing more amusing than making a short joke in his vicinity. Edward had somehow wiggled his way in as a crucial member of Team Mustang. He was smart, resourceful, and moral to a fault. Not that Mustang would ever tell him this. They’d reached a silent understanding about a year into Edward’s service, and they’d never looked back.

“I don’t know much about Ishval really. I didn’t leave the Southern region at all, I think. Hm…” Edward seemed to struggle to find the words.

“To me, Ishval was…” Edward began, before shaking his head. “Let me put it like this. Amestrian accounts of the War always describe Ishval as a sandy hellhole. That its climate was hot and unforgiving. Its people were practically savages, worshipping a deity that would let them fall into oblivion. And I guess I can see that all that stuff is true, from a certain point of view. I guess it’s easier to think of other people as less than human in a situation like that.

“But the thing I remember most from Ishval was how alive it was. I was born after the War had already begun, but where we were… we didn’t feel the direct effects of it until later. There was rationing and people heard horrible news from the warfronts all the time, but as kids, we were shielded from a lot of that. And, really, what are you gonna do? Life continues. Everyone got out of bed each morning, and the kids went to school, and people went to work.

“And nowhere did Ishval feel more alive than in the marketplace of my town. It was smaller than the market here in Kedesh, but it was lively and everyone knew everybody else. I don’t remember getting a lot of stares for my Amestrian appearance, probably because everyone already knew who I was. I know that it sounds backwards, but my childhood in Ishval was peaceful and quiet. So that’s how Ishval exists in my memory.”

“Were people unkind to you? Because of the way you looked?”

“A few,” Edward confessed, scratching the back of his neck. Winry and Al were captivated by Edward’s words, and Mustang was pleased to know that Edward had been reticent with his past to everyone, not just him. “But not many. Most people were really nice, which maybe was ‘cause we came from a respected family, but I’d like to think that they were just nice.”

“So this ancient family thing, is it that big of a deal?” Breda asked. His fingers twitched, so Mustang knew he was craving some hard liquor.

“It depends who you ask. To the Elders, yeah. To average Ishvalans, I don’t really know. It never felt like a big deal in our family, but….” Edward shrugged. “The only thing that was kind of cool about it was the monument in the _Zikkaron._ ”

“Will you be able to fix it?” Mustang asked, speaking for the first time. His mouth was dry and he reminded himself that he’d stared down much worse than this shrimp, but he couldn’t think of anything.  

“I don’t know,” Alphonse said. “At some point I guess we will, but we’ll have to find someone who can craft that kind of stone. It might take a while.”

“So this ancient family thing? Did that mean your family was loaded?” Havoc asked, leaning forward.

“Havoc!”

“What?” he asked, not at all abashed by Hawkeye’s glaring. “It’s a legitimate question. I mean noble families in other countries usually have gold up the wazoo.”

“Er, yeah, we had some inheritance. Don’t know how big it was. Why, you looking for a loan?” Edward asked with a half-smile.

“Nah,” Havoc said with a shrug. “I’m just nosy. So that money… is that…?”

“Gone? Yeah,” Edward said. “Ironic, huh? I know a lot of Ishvalan money got funneled into the Amestrian government.”

“So it was like they were paying you back your own money when they paid your salary,” Breda said.  

“Exactly,” Edward said, but as he saw their serious faces, he rolled his eyes. “Ease up. It’s mostly a joke.”

“You suck a joke telling, Edward,” Winry said, punching him in the shoulder.

“OW!”

“That was so light! Get over it!”

As Edward and Winry began bickering, Alphonse sat down closer to Mustang and the others.

“Are you mad at us?” Alphonse asked, and at those words, Winry and Edward stopped yelling, shock coloring their expressions.

“Mad? Why would we be mad?” Hawkeye asked.  

“We lied to you for a long time,” Alphonse said, refusing to meet Mustang’s eyes.

“That’s true, but we can understand why you did it,” Hawkeye said, inflecting her voice with warmth.

 And then Alphonse’s eyes began glistening, and suddenly, tears cascaded down his cheeks.

“Argh, not again,” he blubbered. “I-I cry a lot these days. Since-” Hiccup. “I got my body back, it just happens all the time.” Hiccup. “It’s so embarrassing.”

It seemed really important to Alphonse to explain that he wasn’t crying because of the conversation, but Mustang didn’t entirely believe that. Winry ran forward to embrace Al, who closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder. His tears cleared up soon after, and he dabbed at his red-rimmed eyes with his sleeve.

“I really hope that goes away,” Al muttered. “I can’t live the rest of my life crying constantly. Honestly, I didn’t cry much before I lost my body, I swear. Right, Edward?”

“Right, Al,” Edward chimed back.

“I’m sorry,” Al said. “We don’t have any precedent for these kinds of things, like getting your body back from the Gate after years without its soul. What was I saying?”

“You were apologizing needlessly,” Hawkeye said, placing her hand on Al’s shoulder. “Of course we understand why you lied. It was for the best.”

“Thanks for saying so,” Al said.

“It was,” Mustang said firmly. “We don’t begrudge you for keeping your secrets.”

“It must be, like, second-nature by now, right?” Havoc asked.

“Yeah,” Al said quietly. “We didn’t start off that way though. We got better.” Alphonse shrugged. “Teacher knew.”

“She did?” Hawkeye asked.

“Yeah,” Edward said, sharing a smile with his brother. “She was awesome. And she really saved our butt too.”

At their questioning expressions, Edward sighed, “We were really stupid back then.”

“In our defense, Brother, we were just kids,” Alphonse said.

“Eh. Anyway, Al and I liked to speak Ishvalan to each other when it was just the two of us around. It was good practice, you know? But we accidentally did it in public while we were in Dublith training with Teacher. So someone heard us and reported it to the military.” Edward’s mouth narrowed, and Winry rubbed his shoulder.

“But the War was over then,” Havoc said. “I don’t understand-”

“You would think, wouldn’t you?” Edward said with a strangely out-of-place dark smile on his youthful face. He’d aged since the Promised Day, and now that he no longer needed to support two bodies, he had grown some too. He looked like a young man, no longer the kid Mustang remembered breaking down his door and turning in purposefully vindictive, unhelpful reports. But the thing that aged him the most wasn’t his appearance; rather, it was the world-weariness that Edward had never had. Or at least he’d always hidden it, but Ishval had coaxed a different side out of Edward. One that Mustang wished wasn’t there.  

“Ishvalans could be reported to the Amestrian government for five years after the end of the extermination. Any form of Ishvalan culture, like prayer or Ishvalan clothing, was banned in any capacity,” Mustang recited blankly.

“What would have happened to them then?” Havoc asked.

“It depends on who had investigated them,” Hawkeye said. “Deportation, fines, just a warning. Even though they don’t look Ishvalan… even speaking Ishvalan in public could be considered a crime.”

Alphonse leaned on Winry, who wrapped her other arm around Edward. His tense shoulders loosened at the contact. There was no fight left in the Elrics. Their unhappy resignation to the horrors of their past made Mustang feel worse than if they’d yelled and screamed.

“But don’t worry,” Alphonse said. “Teacher protected us. She scared the people who reported us so much that they receded their account.”

“She would have done anything,” Edward said fondly. “And the whole time, she would just complain that the only reason she was doing it was ‘cause it’d be such a waste to have to start training new alchemists from scratch.”

“We should go visit her soon, Brother,” Alphonse said, and Edward shuddered.

“She’s going to kill us, isn’t she? We haven’t been sparring regularly.” Edward groaned and Winry comforted them both. From what Mustang had seen of Izumi Curtis, their tales of terror were not overblown.

“Probably,” Al easily agreed.

“I thought you weren’t her students anymore?” Winry said.

“That’s got nothing to do with it. She’s still scary!” Alphonse said, and Havoc hid a laugh behind his hand.

It would have been easy to let the night come to an end naturally. It wasn’t awkward anymore, and although Havoc and Breda were noticeably on edge, it felt normal to be sitting around a table with his men and the Resembool trio, even Miss Rockbell, who’d somehow wormed her way into Mustang’s affections.

Yes, it would be easy to let the evening end with warm feelings, but Mustang had been putting this off all day, and he vowed he wouldn’t be too afraid to ask. So when the talking wound down, he asked the question he needed answered.  

“What town in Ishval were you from?” He knew that it didn’t flow with the conversation, knew that he’d just killed the mood again. Hawkeye was far too practiced to roll her eyes at him but just a tilt of her head was enough to get the message across.

“Why do you want to know?” Edward asked, glancing Mustang up and down, and Mustang felt strangely judged by his gaze.  

“I think you know why,” Mustang said.

“Does it matter?” Edward asked. “What town I’m from. Does it matter if it’s your hands or anyone else’s that did it?”

“It does matter. To me,” Mustang said. That Havoc, Breda, Hawkeye, Winry, and Alphonse were spectators to this personal moment barely crossed his mind.

“Let me tell you this,” Edward said, and Mustang wondered if Edward’s hesitation to share was the smallest form of payback he could offer. “When I became a State Alchemist, I had access to most of the military files from the Ishvalan conflict.”

“You read them?” Hawkeye asked. “That’s…”

“Sick, I know,” Edward said, shaking his head. “But I had questions, and it was a way to get answers. I thought that I needed to know all of the details, every scrap of information I could get my hands on, but… that’s me all over, isn’t it? Not learning my lesson.”

“Don’t say that,” Winry murmured, and Alphonse nodded.

“No, it’s true. If I’ve learned anything, Mustang, it’s that there are some questions you don’t want the answers to.”

With that, Edward left. It wasn’t an angry retreat, but he didn’t pass words of farewell along either. Winry and Alphonse followed him, but before they left, Alphonse leaned into them.

“He won’t say anything, but thanks for not… freaking out that we’re half-Ishvalan,” Alphonse said, and Mustang wondered when it had become normal for the Elrics to expect rejection after the revelation of their Ishvalan past.

But images he’d pushed aside for years roared to the front of his mind. Of the intolerance and bullying that Heathcliff Erbe endured for years. It had made Mustang angry beyond words, completely willing to face punishment on his behalf. Maes was much the same. But Heathcliff? He was barely phased by the taunts and physical attacks. His resignation to the cruelty had been confusingly tragic to Mustang once, but now, he could see it on the Elrics’ faces. How many times could you face rejection and cruelty before you started expecting it?

“I need a drink,” Mustang said, and the others echoed his request. They leaned over the bar and grabbed a quick (and small, unfortunately) drink before bed. Even Hawkeye, who usually refused out of hand because somebody needed to be in fighting condition, accepted one too.

“Just when you think a kid’s life can’t get any worse,” Havoc said, before chugging the entire glass down in one swig.

“So it goes,” Breda agreed.

“Mind if I say something none of you want to hear?” Hawkeye said, and they all nodded.

“If Edward came out publically as half-Ishvalan and supported whatever treaty comes out of these Accords… well, some of our problems go away. The Fullmetal Alchemist was well-renowned, and if he reveals that he’s really part Ishvalan, it might drum up more Amestrian support for Ishval.” At their frowns, Hawkeye took a slow drink. “It’s not right to ask of these boys, but I know you were thinking it.”

“Mustang?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” he said, his drink long since finished. He could down six of them in a night easily, but he had to be at full brain capacity early the next morning, so he resisted. “But we have no right to ask that of him.”

“If he wants to-” Havoc began.

“He won’t,” Mustang said. “You saw him. He’s been hiding this since he was a kid.”

“When we met him, he was still a kid,” Breda reminded them.

“Yeah, a kid that could kick almost anyone’s ass though,” Havoc said.

“But still a kid,” Breda said. He’d finished his drink too and was wiggling the glass, as though more alcohol would magically appear in it. His frown dug deep into his face, and Mustang wanted to scream at him. At Havoc. That Ishval was his burden to bear. He’d served in Ishval. He’d inflicted terror on these sands, but they hadn’t.

Mustang could never understand how Hughes had been able to come home after such a war, embrace his girlfriend, and continue living a normal life. Mustang had envied it at the time, but he realized now that it wasn’t good or bad that Hughes had left his war crimes in Ishval. It just was. Hughes was just one of the thousands of the Amestrians who had to make peace with themselves over the horrible things they’d done.

Mustang always felt exempt from this group. How could he not, considering the scope of the damage he’d wrought? He was the Flame Alchemist, a name which could still inspire fear in the hearts of Ishvalans. He wouldn’t be surprised if his moniker became equated with an Ishvalan “boogie man” who’d strike down kids if they didn’t listen to their parents.

And yet…

He just couldn’t understand Fullmetal.

This wasn’t unusual. He’d struggled to keep up with that pipsqueak since the moment he’d met him. Edward had understood alchemic theories at age twelve better than Mustang could now, and his strict moral code made him difficult to fit into Mustang’s well-rehearsed equations.

Mustang tried to put himself into Fullmetal’s shoes, staring down the man who may have murdered his family, and he couldn’t do it. For one, Mustang had been bereft of family, sans Madame Christmas, for almost as long as he could remember. The only comparison he had to family was Maes Hughes, and look how well he’d taken his death!

He would have murdered Envy in cold blood if he hadn’t been stopped. The fury that possessed him then still bubbled his gut when he imagines Maes or thinks of Gracia and Elicia, eternally cursed with a Maes-sized hole in their lives. It frightened Mustang to realize that he still had that anger, but it made Edward’s actions all the more confusing.

If it was Mustang staring down the man who’d killed his countrymen, the man whose hands were stained with blood from thousands, the man who may even have his cousins’ or aunts’ or uncles’ or grandparents’ blood on his hands, Mustang doubted that he’d still be alive.

Breda, Havoc, and Hawkeye had retreated upstairs to sleep ages ago, but Mustang hadn’t moved. It wasn’t until he stood up and crossed the lounge that he noticed Hawkeye. She sat on the bottom step, head resting against the banister, drooling slightly (not that he would ever mention it for fear of his life). She’d been waiting for him.

The thought elated him for a second and then immediately filled him with shame.  Hawkeye had always deserved a life better than the one she’d chosen for herself, all because she was following him. Mustang nudged Hawkeye awake, and she leaped to her feet.

“Good morning, Riza,” Mustang said in a teasing voice, and Hawkeye stared him down expressionless.

“Are you done moping, sir?”

“I’m not sure.” They plodded up the stairs side-by-side, and as they stood in the hallway ready to part, Hawkeye leaned towards him.

“Edward is a far better man than we deserve, Roy.”

Mustang nodded, glad that in the darkness he couldn’t see the pain in her eyes. It didn’t matter what they did in Ishval. Even if they accomplished all of their goals, they would only be returning Ishval to its natural state. The one that they’d destroyed for philosopher’s stones and a country-wide transmutation circle.

For what surely wouldn’t be the last time, Mustang wished Maes was alive. He’d always been good at raising Mustang’s spirits, even if Mustang didn’t believe that he even deserved that much. If Hughes could see Mustang’s self-loathing, he would have pushed his glasses up past the bridge of his nose with a sigh, and then give him some pointed words about Mustang’s stupidity.

But he was dead, and he’d never shake Mustang out of his moping again.

Mustang just couldn’t understand these Ishvalans: Edward, Alphonse, Abra, Padma, and the list continued. People who’d lost so much and yet remained good and hopeful.

Edward truly was a far better man than Mustang deserved. But despite that, Mustang knew -regardless of Edward’s warning or advice- that there would be no peace until he learned the truth about Edward’s town. This was a question that he needed to have answered, whatever may come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! 
> 
> Next week, we’ll bounce back to Alphonse's POV, and no spoilers, but I promise that it’ll be a doozy.


	11. Alphonse Elric II

As the Ishvalan Accords continued, Alphonse felt more and more comfortable in Ishval. Of course there was a maniacal ex-military officer that wanted to kill him and his brother just because of how they were born, but if Alphonse got overwhelmed every time someone was after him or his brother, he’d have spent most of the past few years cowering underneath the bed.

Al was just glad that their secrets were now out.  And he knew that Edward was too, in his own way. Because Edward had become less reticent with his details of Ishval and the lives that they’d once led here. He’d guided Al and Winry through the food stands in the market, pointing out which foods were what and what tasted good, despite the presence of milk. Although Alphonse recognized some of the dishes from Mom’s attempts at bringing Ishvalan cuisine to their Amestrian kitchen, now he could taste them as they were meant to be tasted, made with the proper ingredients.

And what ingredients they were! The spices and sauces of the street food were intoxicating. Alphonse felt like he could spend months in Kedesh and still not be satisfied drinking in all of the sights, the flavors, and the beautiful Ishvalan tongue that trickled through every nook and cranny. In his limited time here so far, he’d noticed his own Ishvalan gradually improving, and he’d even taken to teaching a few words to Winry, who’d absorbed them eagerly.

It was hard to see Ishval like Edward did -through the lens of memory and longing- but Alphonse appreciated it for different reasons. The heat was a bit extreme, but Ishval more than made up for it with friendly faces, delicious foods, and a lyrical language. He was experiencing the world of his ancestors, listening to a tongue he’d all but forgotten, and reacquainting his palette with Ishvalan fare. 

“Taste this,” Abra said a few weeks later, spooning a ladleful of an orange broth to Alphonse. He slurped it and was delighted to find it warm and spicy.

“Amazing!” he said, and Abra gave a taste to Edward and Winry too, before tasting her own soup again and adding a pinch more salt.   

“I’m pretty good, aren’t I?” she said, covering the pot up again.

“You are!” Al said.

“You know what the secret is?” Abra asked, faux-conspiratorially, leaning in close.

“What?”

“Practice!” she said, and Al laughed. “And innate talent.” Abra puffed out her chest, and Winry stifled a chuckle. Abra’s presence was reassuring in these troubling times, and spending time with her made his heart feel lighter.

Though Al had been less pleased with her attention when she’d cornered him a few days ago and asked him about the girls in his life. He assured her there were none, but she didn’t leave until she’d coaxed out May’s name. _Not that he had a crush on her or anything!_ She was just a girl who he was friends with, but Al didn’t like Abra’s knowing smile as she slipped around the corner.  

But as much as he loved Madam Abra, Al’s new favorite person to talk with was Elder Shan. When Edward and Winry snuck outside the inn -usually for automail-related errands- Al would often stay behind and Elder Shan would divulge some stories from her many adventures. He’d reciprocate, but he felt like his were very inadequate in comparison.

Though when Al told her as much, she laughed.

“Don’t be envious. You have your whole life in front of you,” she said, her cracked lips forming a half-smile. Although the bandage over her eye had once reminded him of the horrors of the Ishvalan War, now it reminded him of pirates, considering the tales of her early swashbuckling years. Al loved hearing about lives so different from his own, because it reminded him of how small his world was compared to the vastness of the universe. Although Al had hated Edward being a “dog of the military,” travelling around Amestris and meeting new people had kept life exciting.

What was less pleasant than talking with Elder Shan, however, were the awkward moments with the Amestrians, who seemed to fear the Elric brothers’ wrath. Even though Alphonse could never forgive the Amestrian army for the destruction it had wrought on Ishval, he’d never equated Mustang and Hawkeye with the faceless soldiers that had stolen Ishval away. Mustang and Hawkeye had been with the Elrics every step of the way on their journey to get their bodies back, and their faith in Al’s humanity, as well as their assistance, had been invaluable.

Al just wanted things to go back to how it had always been with them.

But it couldn’t.  

Even within the Accords’ discussions, the balance had shifted. Of course, Ariyn Fitzgerald still remained ignorant of their past, and no one had the urge to fill her in, but everyone else knew of their heritage, and suddenly, Edward’s words were taken much more seriously. Every remark, every idea was given newfound weight. And often when Elder Shan would argue something, she’d eye the Elrics for support.

But the issues were so complex and varied, from education reforms to religious freedoms to telephone wiring, that Alphonse never felt smart enough to contribute.

Well, he amended, it wasn’t that he wasn’t _smart_ enough. It was just that there were so many potential ramifications of every single decision that it was intimidating. But when he brought up his concerns with Winry, she laughed.

Which made him feel worse until she explained, “You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met. You-you-you moron.”

“Hey!”

“You see the world as it should be, Al,” she said, waving her arms around as she sought the right wording. “You’re an optimist, and you don’t want to compromise at all, because you think everyone should be completely satisfied. You’re just hopeful that it’ll all have a happy ending, and we need people like that now, even if you can’t contribute in the way you want to.”

At Alphonse’s fallen face, she backtracked.

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong! It’s just that these meetings are more about realistic approaches. There’s nothing wrong with seeing the best in the world. If there were more people like you, Al, we really would have a better country.”

Alphonse didn’t feel assuaged, but he let it go.

Since the confrontation at the _Zikkaron,_ Gustav had been quiet. Nothing that they’d done to draw him out had worked, so all they could do was continue with the Ishvalan Accords the best they could, while preparing for the next time that he struck.

The delegation had visited many of the governmental buildings around Kedesh, as well as agricultural reserves, but they’d avoided the Ishvalan temple so far. It had been damaged by the Sand Alchemist, but it was nearly repaired now, though not in a beautiful way befitting a temple. More of a patch job on the giant hole in the front. Temples should be grand and imposing, the Ishvalans argued, and if they had relented on funding for a temple before, they were a lot less likely to do so now, considering the one that they’d had been exploded by a former Amestrian soldier.

So to convince the Amestrians otherwise, the delegation decided to visit it and to see firsthand its many failings and inadequacies.

“The Amestrians are never going to cave on funding the temple,” Madam Abra had told Alphonse that morning before breakfast. “I’d bet money that Elders Shan and Vikram are just pushing it so that they can compromise with other things.”

“Is that how this works? People lie so they can get what they really want?” Alphonse asked, hating his own naivety, despite his inner voice urging himself that this was not how the world _should_ be.

Despite its hasty repair, the temple was still magnificent in Alphonse’s eyes. He couldn’t ever remember being inside of an Ishvalan temple before, except for the day of the explosion. And obviously he’d been a bit distracted then. The temple had a completely different vibe when it was properly enclosed. The vaulted ceiling and soaring columns made Alphonse feel small, and the rows of pews reminded him of primary school in Resembool.

A priest with a crooked nose and long spidery fingers lectured the group on the importance of temples in Ishvalan culture and lots of other boring stuff. Al actually tried to listen but was soon distracted by one of the open windows, which had a small tabby stretched across the sill. But at least Al pretended to pay attention; Edward didn’t even do that much, resting his head on his palm and gazing blankly at the colorful artwork etched into the walls with thin strokes, all while the Ishvalan priest continued to drone on.

Although this was extremely boring for Al, it was probably beneficial for the Amestrians, whose perception of the Ishvalan religion was likely skewed. In the brief moments his Amestrian school had touched on Ishval and their savagery, he’d heard his teachers spew about how the Ishvalan religion was a trying one, bleak and obstinate, because what else could arise from an inhospitable desert? But in Al’s mind, Ishvala was always kind. He’d always imagined Her as looking like his mother, maybe because it was from her reverent whispers that he’d first heard the name.

But it was more than that. Despite the many horrible things that Al had seen, he’d seen far more good ones. The people he’d met, the people who’d treated him well even in a suit of armor, the miraculous return of his body, the sacrifice his brother had made on his behalf, the sacrifice his father made for his country, the welcoming arms of the Hughes family. There was just no room in Alphonse’s heart to believe in a cruel deity.

Lost in thought, it took Alphonse a moment to notice movement outside the temple.

And then the doors of the temple were thrown open. For a split second, Alphonse expected Gustav to be standing in the entryway, wielding his alchemy gloves and preparing a sand storm, but instead, it was one of the Amestrian soldiers.

“Attack! In the school!” he yelled, his face flushed, and his words forced out between gasps, but they were intelligible, despite the horror they contained. “The masked assailant! He’s holding kids hostage inside!”

_No._

The Kedeshian school was an unremarkable Ishvalan building, except for the high-pitched laughter that escaped from the hallways all the way down to the street below. Because _children_ didn’t carry the same burdens as their parents. They were innocents that had done nothing but be born.

How could this keep happening?

_Children._ In danger. _Children._

The exhaustion and boredom rushed out of Alphonse, and he was immediately on edge, ready to fight.

Mustang wasted no time in dividing the delegation, to not leave anyone unprotected.

“Elrics, you’re with me,” Mustang said, which made Al glad he didn’t have to fight with Mustang to be included. He knew that he could do more good at the scene of the attack than sitting around uselessly, even if he wasn’t at full strength. Honestly, if any Elric shouldn’t go, it was Edward, but there wasn’t time to argue, and Edward would never listen, so Mustang led the group, consisting of Hawkeye, the Elrics, Breda, and about half of their accompanying guards toward the school.

Their first sign that something was wrong came before the school was even in sight. Because from all the way down the road, they could hear screaming. Not a single person, but dozens of different voices, some calling to the heavens, some trying to find their children, some Al couldn’t even understand.

_Ishvala, why does this keep happening?_

As they turned the corner from the crossroads towards the school, Alphonse saw the panic. Ishvalan citizens, who probably had children of their own trapped inside, were hysterical.  A young woman, no older than Edward, squirmed, as she tried to free her wrist from a similarly-aged man. Tears streaked her cheeks, and after another moment of struggling, she collapsed onto the sand, knees buckling beneath her, the man just a moment behind.

Prayers were exchanged like greetings, as the crowd was united in grief.

But despite the chaos outside, the school was eerily quiet, with its doors and windows shut as though it were abandoned.

Beyond the Ishvalan crowd were Amestrian soldiers, aligned in three even rows and brandishing firearms, their bright blue uniforms glaring against the fair sand and gleaming white buildings. Mustang ran past the Ishvalans and over to the soldiers.

“Second Lieutenant Darrow, what the hell is going on here?”

A young soldier with sunken eyes - Lieutenant Darrow- visibly relaxed.

“Sir! General Mustang!” he said, his voice carrying over the sobbing of the parents. “You weren’t here, but I knew that you’d want us to do something, so I started defusing the situation, sir. I think you’ll be most pleased with our progress so far.”

“Status report, Lieutenant,” Mustang said firmly.  

“The situation is completely under control. My plan is to reclaim the school shortly, sir. I promise you that I will end the confrontation and bring down the Sand Alchemist for good, sir. You can trust me, sir.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Darrow?” Mustang asked, his voice low but shaking, like it required all of his strength not to be screaming. Darrow stepped backwards, his acne-lined face glistening under the Ishvalan sun.

“I’m doing what you need, sir. The soldiers will end this Sand Alchemist and restore order to Ishval. I know maybe it was a little presumptuous of me, but I wanted to show you that I’m fit for field-”

“Under whose orders are you acting?”

“Yours, sir,” Darrow said, but he wouldn’t meet Mustang’s eyes.

“And when did I say anything about this? Under whose orders are you really acting, Darrow? Ariyn Fitzgerald’s?”

“No! I’m… I’m-” Darrow began blinking rapidly, his breathing accelerating. “It was my idea, sir. I just-I thought that you’d be impressed if-”

“Impressed? There are civilians inside, Second Lieutenant Darrow! What the hell were you thinking?” Mustang growled, his dark eyes flashing. His hands hovered over his pocket that held his fire alchemy gloves, but Mustang didn’t uncover them.

“What intel have you gathered that made you think that storming the school guns blazing was a good idea?” Hawkeye asked, seemingly calm. But Alphonse knew better. “Your plan might endanger civilians.”

“General,” Darrow began, ignoring Hawkeye completely. “Um, sir. The Sand Alchemist is a very dangerous man, and without your presence, I just thought…. Well, I was in command, so I acted the way I thought you’d-well, in Amestris’ best interests...” He trailed off at the livid expressions mirrored on Mustang’s and Hawkeye’s faces.

“So you’re saying you didn’t have a plan? You were about to just try and kill Gustav, consequences be damned?” Mustang asked. He kept his voice low enough that the other Ishvalans wouldn’t hear, but his voice bubbled with hysterics. “What if you had killed a child? What if we hadn’t gotten here in time to stop you? You were really going to sacrifice children to possibly get at Gustav?”

“Actually, General…” Second Lieutenant Darrow began, wringing his hands. “I…already…um…actually…”

Everyone seemed to put it together at once.

The small number of soldiers stationed outside the school suddenly made sense.  

“They’re already in position,” Breda said, dumbfounded, as though he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “You’ve already begun.”

“How could you-” Hawkeye started, but she was cut off by Mustang’s frantic shouting.

“You fool!” Mustang screamed. “After everything I told you? I told you to be careful! I specifically ordered you not to endanger any civilians under any circumstances. And these aren’t just civilians, they’re _children._ My god, Darrow, what have you done?” As he shouted, spit flew from his mouth and his hands trembled. Alphonse couldn’t ever remember seeing him like this, and the Elrics exchanged concerned looks.

But neither of them knew what to do. Alphonse stared up at the quiet school, devoid of children’s voices. The nondescript off-white building was menacing now, the way it towered over the neighboring businesses with its angular edges and sharp features.

“I-I can’t get Gustav with civilians around,” Mustang said, turning to Hawkeye, his tone still residually biting from his confrontation with Darrow. “It’s too much of a risk. Without knowing exactly where he is, I might accidentally level the building. I’d need a good look at him, but there can’t be anyone in close proximity to Gustav. Otherwise they’ll…” Mustang didn’t need to finish his thought.

“Gustav will have to wait. First things first, we have to stop the soldiers,” Hawkeye said. She glanced back at the Second Lieutenant. “Is there a way to call off the attack, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir,” Darrow said, his shoulders shaking. “I just wanted to help you and-”

“Just give me details of the attack, Darrow.”

“They approached the building from the rear, and first searched the lower floors. They’re securing the building, level by level. We believe Gustav is on the top floor with the hostages,” Darrow said, his gaze focused on the school. As he stared into the sun, his eyes visibly watered, but it was probably preferable than facing down Mustang’s rage.

“Hostages? You mean the kids,” Mustang said coldly.

The Second Lieutenant fumbled but managed only to string a handful of intelligible words together, so they all ignored him.

“I can take you up there,” a nondescript soldier offered, which Mustang passed along to Hawkeye and Breda, who furrowed their brows in unison.

“There’s not enough time, General,” Breda said.

A hopelessness swept through Alphonse, and then, somehow, it got worse.

Hawkeye pointed back at the school, “He’s on the roof!” and Alphonse squinted up at the rooftop, which was mostly hidden by the sun’s blinding rays. But through the glare, he spotted a towering figure, clothed in white, surrounded by at least a few dozen smaller ones.

They were _children._

“Alphonse, can you create a ramp up to the roof?” Mustang asked, his voice levelling, and Al began seeing hints of the unflappable General he was accustomed to.

“But won’t that endanger the kids?” Alphonse asked.

“No, not if it’s only me,” Mustang said. His body was stiff, as his gaze darted from Alphonse to Riza, as if pleading to be understood. “I’m sure of it. In the _Zikkaron,_ he said he had ‘personal business’ with me, whatever that means. He’ll be glad to see me.”

“Sir, what are you talking about? An exchange? Your life for…”

 “I don’t know,” he said, glancing back up at the rooftop. “But I can’t just wait for Gustav to start… whatever his twisted plan is. He might listen to me. So what do you say, Alphonse?”

A tense hostage situation with children as the hostages, combined with advancing soldiers, whose attack might convince Gustav to start killing the children.

There wasn’t much of a choice.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Al said.

“Al-” Edward began, but Alphonse shook his head. So Edward cleared an open space surrounding Mustang and nodded back to Al. Although Edward didn’t agree with Al’s actions (his hardened glare told Al that much), they could recognize their tenacity in each other when a decision was non-negotiable.

And all Alphonse knew was that he had to help. He also knew that if Mustang died on that rooftop, it would be partially Alphonse’s fault. But that was a burden that he’d have to bear.

Alphonse clapped his hands together, focused on where Mustang was standing, and pictured the alchemic circle. Clap alchemy was natural to him now, so it was simple to raise the chunk of earth Mustang was standing on upward, creating a ramp behind him. But it expended a lot of energy, requiring absolute concentration, so he tuned out the gasps from the Amestrian soldiers and the shouting from the Ishvalan citizens. 

As soon as the ramp crashed into the top of the school and Mustang jumped onto the roof, Alphonse could relax. Marginally. Now they had to trust that Mustang knew what he was doing.

The problem was that the rooftop was too distant to hear anything that was happening, even though the crowd at the base of the school was now nearly silent. And while Al could make out Mustang’s uniform and the large figure that must be Gustav, he couldn’t see much else.

“They’re still talking,” Hawkeye said, her hand creating a visor on her forehead as she squinted into the sun.

But there was nothing else to say, and it became a horrific waiting game.

And as awful as Alphonse was at such things, Edward was even worse.  

“Can’t even see,” Edward muttered, as he began pacing and kicking up stray grains of sand, not bothering to pretend to watch the proceedings on the roof.

The seconds passed like short infinities, each dragging into the next at a glacial pace.

“What if the soldiers get to the roof before the General resolves this?” Breda asked. “And speaking of that, how exactly is he going to resolve this? What if Gustav just kills everyone right now? What if-”

“Don’t worry,” Hawkeye said, never moving her gaze from the rooftop. “We must have faith in the General to make this right.” Her hand hovered over her holster, as she leaned slightly on her right leg. From what Al could remember from the shooting range, Riza would be able to shoot in less than two seconds from this position. All without alerting the other soldiers as to how nervous she was.

Not for the first time, Alphonse was impressed by Hawkeye more than he could even say.

The seconds ticked by, and Alphonse couldn’t believe that a year and a half ago, he couldn’t feel heat or cold or anything at all. Because as they squinted skyward en masse, his clothing clung to his sweaty frame, and he tried to ignore his shaking fingers and his shallow breathing, as though his feigning of composure would push aside the chilling mortality and the physicality of fear that Alphonse hadn’t felt in a long time.

If he were fighting, that would be one thing, but all they could do was watch, relegated to the sidelines of Mustang’s confrontation with a homicidal maniac. He didn’t know what Mustang could say, what Mustang could do, not with children’s lives on the line.  

And then it all seemed to happen at once.

Distant shouts from deep voices. The rooftop hatch swinging open and a pack of gun-wielding men, all in identical blue uniforms, bolting across the roof toward Mustang, Gustav, and the children.

Good. With Mustang there to command them, they’d at least give him the back-up he so desperately needed.

But before Alphonse could reassure anyone that everything was going to be fine, a single soldier paused.

And then he raised his gun.

The crack of gunfire echoed through the thick Ishvalan air. Loud enough to drown out the tearful Ishvalans below, loud enough for Alphonse to feel the sound ringing in his ears after the bullets had stopped, but not loud enough to drown out Hawkeye, who’d murmured a breathy “no,” beside him.

For a split-second, Alphonse thought the soldier hadn’t hit anyone.

But then the dark-haired man in blue, who’d been hovering over the small figures, collapsed.

Alphonse reached for Edward out of habit, gripping his hand tightly, as though to prevent Edward from running forward. Like Breda had done.

The yelling came from everywhere, and the world blurred through Al’s instantaneous tears.  

“No,” Edward whispered.

Alphonse needed to focus, so the moment passed, and the world sharpened again.  

“The Sand Alchemist! Let me go after him! I could catch him. He’s getting away!” Second Lieutenant Darrow shouted, and Alphonse distantly heard Breda order him not to pursue.

“But we could finally catch him!”

“I think you’ve done enough, Lieutenant,” Breda said coldly. “I’m trying to save everyone’s lives.”

But Alphonse couldn’t listen to them. Although panic bubbled at his consciousness, he heard only one voice in clarity.

“Get me to the roof, Alphonse,” Hawkeye said.

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only actionable idea they had.

And there was no way he was sending her onto that roof alone. Alphonse grabbed onto her shoulder, and Edward stepped forward and grabbed Al’s. Hawkeye didn’t protest their addition, and despite the danger, Edward’s presence was soothing.

Al took a deep breath, giving himself a moment of preparation. He’d done more alchemy today than he had in a long time, but he shook off exhaustion, as he knelt onto the earth and clapped. The ground shook as it unfurled a ramp, lifting the three above the rows of paralyzed Amestrian soldiers and the weeping Ishvalans clumped together by the front steps. Hawkeye and Edward held onto his shoulders, and the ramp paralleled the one he’d created for Mustang what felt like ages ago.

At last, they got their first clear look at the state of the rooftop, and it was just as panicked as Al expected.

Dozens of crying children, their hair and clothing disheveled, all clustered together like they needed the mutual body heat to keep warm. Little hands clutched one another, as their knobby knees shook and their lips trembled.

Beyond them, Amestrian soldiers huddled around a fallen figure masked by their broad shoulders but betrayed by a puddle of blood oozing through the gaps in their feet.

“Roy,” Hawkeye said, her voice cracking. Alphonse’s ramp smashed into the roof, breaking down the protective railing, and Edward and Hawkeye leaped onto the concrete.

“General!”

“Mustang!”

They pushed through the soldiers, who for all of their staring, hadn’t approached Mustang’s still form. At their shouts, the soldiers stepped back and Mustang cracked his eyes open a sliver.  

“General,” Hawkeye repeated, shooing the soldiers back, who obeyed wordlessly, still seemingly shocked by the whole affair. She collapsed to the ground in a flurry of jumbled limbs, Edward just a moment behind. 

And there was blood everywhere. Stained onto the concrete, bleeding through his uniform, and now it was on Hawkeye’s hands too, as she cradled him protectively.

“They’re okay?” Mustang croaked.

“Shut up, moron,” Edward said, not unkindly. “We’re going to get you to a doctor. Just hang on.”

“They’re okay?” Mustang choked out again. “Please.” He grabbed onto Hawkeye’s uniform with his blood-stained fingers with surprising force.

“Who, sir?”

“The kids,” Mustang choked out. “The kids. They’re okay?”

“They’re fine,” Alphonse said. “They’re all right. Don’t worry.”

“Good,” Mustang said, closing his eyes and loosening his grip on Hawkeye’s uniform. “Good.”

“You have to stay conscious, sir!” Hawkeye said, but he didn’t open his eyes. “General! Roy!” But his eyes were gently closed, as though he were merely sleeping.

Edward and Hawkeye created a make-shift stretcher with their hands and rose in unison. Mustang’s head lolled against Hawkeye’s shoulder, as she used her free hand to keep pressure on the wound.  Without the physical strength necessary to help, Alphonse didn’t know what to do, relegated to only watching, no more helpful than the milling soldiers who stood horrified as to what one of them had done. 

“Do you need help, sir?” one of the soldiers asked.

“We’ll be cleaning up the mess you made, Private,” Hawkeye spat back. Alphonse had never seen her like this, the fire in her eyes electric, and he worried suddenly what she would do if Mustang… if Mustang…

Alphonse couldn’t say it.

As soon as Hawkeye and Edward lifted Mustang towards the edge, Alphonse clapped again, creating a third ramp down onto the ground. It took all of his energy to safely deposit them onto the sand, and the moment they reached the ground, Al leaned over, the world swaying around him. Edward sent a backward glance to Alphonse, who smiled and shook off exhaustion again. Because he couldn’t rest yet.

Breda grabbed hold of Mustang, taking the place of Hawkeye, who released him begrudgingly. An Ishvalan man shouted toward them, pointing toward the clinic: the same one that had treated the boy from the temple attack.   

It was not the ideal place to take Mustang. Its supplies were limited, and its appearance shabby, betraying the funding troubles that were present all over Kedesh. But they had nowhere else to turn; time was not on their side. Mustang’s face glistened with sweat, and his eyes remained closed. The only signs that he was even alive were his shallow, uneven breaths.  

Sheens of sweat collected on Edward’s face, and Mustang’s blood seeped through to his clothing. They maneuvered through the clinic’s entryway, taking care not to jostle Mustang. Alphonse helplessly trailed behind, watching them gently ease Mustang onto an empty bed, wishing he could do something. Anything. But before they had a moment to collect their breaths, the doctor he recognized from last time rushed in, and everyone else was shooed out.

“I’m not leaving,” Hawkeye said, her voice hoarse, her gaze never leaving Mustang’s bloody body.

“Riza,” Edward said, grabbing onto her arm. “Let the doctors do their job. Come on.”

She let herself be led away by Edward and Breda. All the while, her muscles taut, like it took every bit of her strength not to crash back through the door.

But all they could do was pray.

They walked through the waiting area, the same place he’d prayed to Ishvala, or whatever deity was listening, to save that poor boy from the explosion at the temple. And now, it was again in the hands of someone else. Ishvala . Or just the clinic’s doctors.

_Mustang_ though. Roy Mustang, who seemed like he’d live forever. _The Flame Alchemist._ Who’d survived being forced through the Gate, who overcame blindness, who was finally trying to right the wrongs that had plagued him for years.

Mustang couldn’t _die._ He was Mustang, the man that had given Edward his first bit of hope when they’d committed the taboo. The man who’d watched out for Edward and Alphonse for years, when he’d never had to.

When Edward had already agreed to being a dog of the military, Mustang had kept them focused on their task, giving them relevant assignments and yeah, sure, he fought with Edward almost daily, but… it was _Mustang_.

“He wasn’t even conscious,” Riza said quietly, as they stepped outside the clinic back into the mid-afternoon Ishvalan heat. “Shot in the stomach. It’s not easy coming back from that. I know that. Not even in Central.”

She paused and delivered a wry smile, “I delivered death with bullets. And now they’ve finally come for me.”

“Don’t say that,” Breda said firmly. “He’ll pull through. He always does.”

Another person may have broken down, but Hawkeye had always been strong in ways Alphonse couldn’t imagine. Even when Alphonse offered to stay at the clinic, so he’d be able to report back any changes as soon as they occurred, she refused him.

“Sorry, Alphonse, but we need you out here,” she said, and that was that. She was the highest ranking soldier in Ishval now (except Miles but he was only distantly associated with the military as an Ishvalan delegate), and there was work to be done.

When they’d left the school, Gustav had already fled, the soldiers were lost, and the Ishvalan parents were distraught.

Now, at the very least, the latter was no longer true. They could hear the tearful reunions before they could see them, and the crying this time was joyous and frantic, as mothers and fathers pulled their children into their tight embraces, as though assuring themselves that their nightmare was truly over. Whispers and screaming flew through the air, alike in their messages, thanking Ishvala, praising the fates for not stealing their babies away.

The school itself was silent, completely abandoned by children and soldiers alike. Hawkeye took a moment to take in the scene and leaped into action.

“Breda,” she said in an authoritative voice she usually reserved for threatening Mustang into paperwork. “Go inform the delegation of the situation, and come back to me as soon as you’ve done that. But don’t let Lieutenant Havoc follow you back to the investigation- I want him to stay with the group.”

“Yes, sir!” and Breda scurried to the nearby crossroads leading to the temple.  

Hawkeye surveyed the soldiers with a cool gaze. Alphonse recognized a few from their panicked expressions on the rooftop, but most were a sea of unfamiliar faces. All identical in their fear of Hawkeye.

“Private!” she snapped to a nondescript soldier, who flinched at the attention. “A full report! What happened on the roof before I arrived?”

The soldier’s knees trembled, and he blubbered under Hawkeye’s intense glare, “We were under orders, Sir, from Second Lieutenant Darrow, Sir, to take any available shot to Gustav.” He paused. “Sir.”

“An available shot? Not a clear shot?” Hawkeye asked. If anything, the glare intensified.

“Yes, sir,” the soldier said. “So I guess, sir, someone saw the opportunity and shot at Gustav, but General Mustang jumped in front of it, sir.”

Hawkeye didn’t bother asking who fired the shots, at least not yet. She spun, so she faced Second Lieutenant Darrow.

“There were civilians, Second Lieutenant,” she said, uncaring that all of the soldiers were watching her chew him out.

“The danger that the Sand Alchemist presented-”

“I don’t care about Gustav!” she yelled. Hawkeye never yelled. “There were children in the way! You would have hit them to get to Gustav? Those were NOT the orders General Mustang discussed with you.”

“If one of them took the shot, it must have been aimed at the Sand-”

“No,” Hawkeye said. “General Mustang is an excellent shot. If he’d have thought the bullets would have only hit Gustav, he would never have interfered. Give the General some credit, Lieutenant.”

Fear crossed Darrow’s flushed face, as though he suddenly realized the ramifications of what he’d done.

“Is the General going to be okay?” one soldier from the back asked.  

“We’ll have to see,” Edward supplied, when it became clear Hawkeye wasn’t going to. “He’s a fighter if I’ve ever met one.” The sides of Edward’s mouth tilted upward, but he wasn’t really smiling. Edward and Alphonse knew better to comfort Hawkeye in front of all the soldiers, so Alphonse shot her a fake smile, and she sent a thin-lipped one back.  

“Gustav will be long gone now,” Hawkeye said, shifting back into her military mind-set. “Edward, Alphonse, and you four.” She pointed to the nearest soldiers. “Go see if you can find any clues as to where Gustav is going. Analyze the alchemic marks, but if you find a trail, do not follow it beyond the edges of Kedesh. And do not engage him.” She sent a pointed look to Edward.

“But-” Alphonse began, wishing he could do something more practical, but Hawkeye shook her head. Alphonse didn’t have the heart to argue, so he slunk off with Edward and the soldiers, first to the school’s roof and then to the neighboring buildings he’d jumped to.

As they arrived back onto the roof, one soldier explained that Gustav had escaped using some kind of sand alchemy to run onto one of the adjacent buildings. And then the soldier silenced, and the four soldiers trailed them silently for the rest of their investigation, useless while the Elrics tried to reason through Gustav’s insanity. Whether the troops were subdued due to their personalities, Mustang’s injuries, their own guilt in the affair, or fear of the Fullmetal Alchemist, Alphonse didn’t know. And he didn’t care much either.

“There isn’t a bridge leftover, like the ramps you made, Al. He just …” Edward mimed jumping but without any humor, his jaw permanently set like he was about to bare his teeth.

They wasted the next hour trying to follow Gustav’s escape route, but one of the horrible properties of sand was its speed of disbanding, so after Gustav had fled and its grains no longer bound together by alchemy, it had fallen back to the earth to blend in with all of the other sand. So there was no path, and though they found excessive sand dunes atop a few of the buildings, it seemed unlikely that this could lead towards Gustav.  

“The trail ends here,” Edward said, after they’d explored all of the surrounding roofs with no trace of the sand path.

They hadn’t even gone far; they could still see the school a few roads down.

“He must have started walking like an actual human,” one of the soldiers added, but at Edward’s glare, he clammed up again.

Not many people were truly afraid of Edward, but without Alphonse’s armor stealing most of the attention, Edward was the star here, the youngest State Alchemist ever. And he currently scowled at anyone who said anything. Except Alphonse, of course.

“He’s gone,” Edward said. “Again.”

“It’s okay, Brother. It’ll all work out,” Alphonse lied. Edward rolled his eyes at his optimism, and Alphonse shrugged. Saying it made it feel more real.

“We’ve done all we can here,” Edward said. “Let’s go check on Mustang. What a self-centered bastard. Taking all the attention away from Gustav. When he wakes up, I’m really gonna lay into him.” Edward finished it with a confident smirk, and Alphonse sighed.

Everyone had lies they told themselves to deal with reality.

They began back towards the clinic, abandoning the soldiers as soon as they hit one of the main pathways.

“Wait!” one of the soldiers yelled, and Alphonse stopped, but Edward didn’t bother turning around. The soldier’s face was small, just like his body. He was even shorter than Edward, so that the gun he carried was the same length as his legs.

“What?”

“Is the General going to be okay?” he asked. Luckily, Edward was out of hearing distance, because this would probably give him reason to punch the soldier in the face. Which would be counter-productive.  

“We know as much as you do right now,” Alphonse said. “We’ve been with you all afternoon.” He spoke slowly, like he was talking to a toddler. It wasn’t vindictive (he told himself). It just seemed like the soldiers had been out of sorts since their world had flipped upside-down.  

“Could- could you tell us when you know more?” he asked. And Alphonse cursed his weak heart because, looking at those wide hopeful eyes, he found himself nodding.

“If I get the chance,” he said, which was the best offer he was willing to grant. “What’s your name?”

“Private Leo Cavelli,” the soldier said. “I’m just… really worried, you know?”

Alphonse nodded, noticing the other soldiers doing the same. “Yeah, I know. But the General’s a strong man. He’ll pull through.”

The soldiers nodded again. The fact that they were all years older than him didn’t seem to matter. Alphonse felt a lot older than them anyway.

_One of the Amestrian soldiers shot General Mustang._

He tried to forget about it. After all, it wasn’t Alphonse’s responsibility, and the truth was that they were under orders from that Second Lieutenant, so it wasn’t their fault.

Or was it? How was it any different than what Mustang and Hawkeye had done all those years ago in Ishval?

“Come on, Al!” Edward shouted, and Alphonse ran to catch up.

“What did you run for, you dummy?” Edward said. “You look awful.”

“Thanks, Brother,” Al said.

“Are you okay? Do you need to go back to the inn and rest? It’s been a long day for you. And all of that alchemy…” Edward’s concern pivoted from Mustang to Alphonse instantly.

“I’m fine! Let’s just go check on Mustang.”

Alphonse wasn’t fine though, and the walk to the clinic, while short in distance, seemed much further than before. And the whole time the horrific thoughts continued to plague him.

_General Mustang could be dead._

_How long does a bullet to the stomach take to kill? Not long, and there was so much blood._

Al saw his fears reflected back at him in Edward’s eyes, but Edward never rushed him. They continued walking at the slow pace that Alphonse required. And even though each step in the sand was torturous, as his feet sunk into the dipping earth, they eventually arrived at the clinic, hesitating for a moment over the door’s handle.  

The waiting room was full. Winry, Breda, Havoc, Elder Vikram, Elder Shan, Madam Abra. All stuffed into the tiny, windowless room. Their heads were mostly bowed, their expressions morose. But at Edward and Alphonse’s entrance, they stirred.  

“Any news?” Edward asked, and a few of them shook their heads.

“Nothing yet,” Havoc said, toying with an unlit cigarette. Breda leaned slightly into him, a necessity of the cramped environment.

It suddenly occurred to Alphonse how many people cared about Mustang. Not that he didn’t know that already, but it was more visceral to see the overcrowded waiting room, full of people anxious for news. And even more, knowing that there were others working right now, who cared enough about Mustang to continue doing their jobs while he was incapacitated. Even though Mustang had set out to create a network of people who were useful to him, he’d actually created a family. Bound by something stronger than blood.

Alphonse wished that the other members of “Team Mustang” were here: Fuery and Falman. It seemed cruel that they toiled onward somewhere across Amestris, unaware that Mustang’s life hung in the balance.

Just a few days ago, Alphonse had been arguing with Edward over Mustang. About whether Mustang could be forgiven, whether there was a way he could make up for the sins he’d committed, whether the sins were Mustang’s or Amestris’.

Mustang had murdered Ishvalans in cold blood. It was under orders, but it was still in cold blood. And he wasn’t like Major Armstrong, who’d had a mental breakdown and was recalled to Central. Mustang had sucked it up and brutally burned Ishvalans by the hundreds. By the thousands. Alphonse didn’t know the numbers; Alphonse didn’t _want_ to know the numbers.

Edward knew a lot more about Mustang’s misdeeds than Alphonse did, but Alphonse didn’t want to know; he’d taken Edward’s message to heart. There were some questions you didn’t want the answers to.

And yet, Edward had still complained after he’d delivered that message to Mustang.

“He wants to know, Alphonse,” Edward had said. “He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want to know the town we’re from. It shouldn’t matter to him. It doesn’t matter to me anymore. His hands or some other Amestrian soldier. Isn’t it all the same? Not every soldier murdered our family, but they all murdered my people.”

That Edward had never called Ishvalans _his_ people before, Alphonse didn’t point out. Alphonse loved that the longer they spent in Ishval, the closer both of them felt towards their mother and her country. Their country.

“If he wants to know, Edward, you should tell him. It’s his choice whether he learns the truth or not, and you’ve given him the choice. What does Abra like to say?  ‘ _There is never an assurance of tomorrow._ ’ What are you afraid of? That he’ll be… what?”

“He’ll be different. That’s all,” Edward had said. “We’ve already made peace with it.”

Had they? Alphonse didn’t know, and now, maybe they would never know. And Mustang might never get the answer he was looking for. Alphonse had _told_ Edward. If Mustang died…

Alphonse couldn’t dare think it. He didn’t know what he would do or what Edward would do or how the Ishvalan Accords could continue without him. He didn’t know what would happen to Mustang’s team or his most loyal subordinate, Riza Hawkeye. Speaking of Riza…

“Where’s Hawkeye?” Alphonse asked.

“She’s talking to the soldiers right now. Major Miles is with her, so she doesn’t kill any of them,” Havoc said. Alphonse didn’t know if he was joking.

“Do we know any more of what happened?” Edward asked. There was no place for them to sit, which was usually not a problem. But the day’s strenuous activities were catching up to Alphonse, and the room began spinning. He was tempted to grab onto Edward, but he didn’t want to alert him to any problem, so Al just stood there in his haze, trying to hold onto consciousness.

“No one’s come forward with who fired the shots. Four shots were fired in total. We know that the troops must know, but they’re probably covering for their friend. Hawkeye will get it out of them eventually. They probably won’t even have to look at the bullets in the guns, knowing her,” Havoc said. “What did you guys find?”

“Nothing,” Edward said. “It was a waste of time. Gustav covered his tracks. He could be anywhere by now. He got away. Again.”

“It’s all right, Chief,” Havoc said, but there was no inflection of genuine comfort. “We’ll get him next time.”

Alphonse was dizzy, and it was becoming difficult to determine which direction the floor and the ceiling were in. He tried to focus on Havoc’s smooth voice, but he kept losing track of it. Alphonse felt his eyes glazing over, and then someone shouted. In his last conscious moment, Al grabbed onto Edward, before he slipped into darkness.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next week we’ll see things from Miles’ POV. 
> 
> I always look forward to hearing what y’all think about the story’s progression, so if you’re enjoying the story, I’d love to hear from you!


	12. Major Miles II

Between waiting for the outcome of Gustav’s attack, Mustang getting shot, and then trying to clean up the mess that had been left in his wake, Miles wanted to huddle beneath his blankets and sleep for a week. Not that he would tell anyone that, obviously; after all, he had a reputation to maintain.

Instead, he was helping Captain Hawkeye. The post-hostage clean-up was still ongoing: a mixture of assessing damaged property, calming Kedesh’s citizens, and determining what they were going to do about Second Lieutenant Darrow and the other Amestrian soldiers.

Second Lieutenant Darrow, who’d disobeyed direct orders from Mustang not to threaten the lives of any Ishvalans.

Orders Mustang probably thought he didn’t need to give. Orders Major Miles was thankful were given, because it made explicit Second Lieutenant Darrow’s treason.

“Send him back to Central,” Miles urged Hawkeye, when the two conferred that afternoon. They were searching for any dangerous substances left inside the Kedeshian school, like poison, bombs, or alchemic circles. It wasn’t Gustav’s style, but Miles couldn’t, in good conscience, assure the Ishvalan parents that returning their children to school was safe until he’d done a thorough inspection. “It’s not the best outcome for Darrow, but there isn’t a better option than letting Central deal with him.”

Miles hated himself for his rationality, because he wanted nothing more than to confer his own justice upon Darrow here. Darrow had put Ishvalan children in danger. Not only did that jeopardize children’s lives, did Darrow not understand his history? The Ishvalan War had begun with the death of a single child at the hands of a soldier. Did he not understand the ramifications such a thing could cause?

Of course, Darrow was trying to get Gustav, but he’d disobeyed direct orders.

But if he could put that treachery aside, Miles could imagine General Armstrong arguing that Darrow had made the right call. That Gustav’s death would better serve the people of Kedesh, even if there were civilian costs. But the Law of Briggs -survival of the fittest- didn’t apply here. The warm Ishvalan sand was incompatible with the world of the snowy North and its bitter frigidity.

Miles wasn’t sure if he’d changed or whether the two were just incomparable. He was merely thankful that Mustang had interpreted the situation with Darrow the same way. _Even if Miles did feel uncomfortable that he’d somehow become one of Mustang’s cheerleaders._  

“I don’t want to send him back to Central. He disobeyed Mustang’s direct orders here in Kedesh, so it’s a problem to deal with here,” Hawkeye said, before cascading into an argument to keep Darrow in Ishval. Her argument was sound, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t making it for the wrong reason.

“You cannot be objective,” Miles said, thumbing through a water-stained Amestrian-Ishvalan dictionary that was probably older than he was. The search was slow and careful, but they’d already cleared the first two floors.

“Major Miles,” she said, slamming her fist down on the nearest desk. “I have been a soldier for many years, and I haven’t let my emotions cloud my judgment in a very long time. I believe Darrow should face justice here, and this has nothing to do with General Mustang.”

“But you cannot be objective,” Miles repeated, raising an eyebrow toward her, and suddenly, the fight went out of Hawkeye. She rolled her shoulders forward and for a moment, Miles feared that she was going to cry. But she didn’t; instead she nodded, her blank expression back in place.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Captain Hawkeye,” Miles said, unsure of why he was still arguing when she’d already acquiesced. “You know that I’m not technically in the Amestrian army anymore, so you don’t have to just obey my orders. This is your call, but you should make it for the right reasons.”

She didn’t answer until they’d finished searching the school and had found nothing troublesome.

“You’re right, Major Miles,” she said finally, as they stepped back out into the sunshine, her voice scratchy from the lengthy silence. “I can’t be objective with Darrow. I’ll message Central now. They need to know about all of this anyway.”

“Are you going to request that all of the soldiers vacate Ishval?” Miles asked, and Hawkeye sighed.

“I’d like to, but… we still need them. Gustav is as dangerous as ever,” she said. “Do you agree?”

“It’s your decision, Captain,” he said.

“What is your opinion then, Miles?”

Miles paused, before turning his gaze towards the cloudless sky, “I don’t know what the best thing to do is, Captain. We can only hope that these Ishvalan Accords will live on as a landmark moment in the relationship between Amestris and Ishval long after we’re gone. I think that despite the challenges so far, we haven’t jeopardized our goals yet, and I hope the presence of the soldiers or Gustav don’t endanger that.”

“I hope so, Major. I really hope so,” she said, before leaving to phone Central. Because the telephone wires only extended so far, it was a bit of a hike to get to a working telephone. Her persistence, even in the face of Mustang’s severe injury, was admirable. Not for the first time, he thought Hawkeye bore a striking resemblance to Brigg’s Ice Queen, General Armstrong.

Now that they’d cleared the school, Miles didn’t have any place to run to. Central Command would dictate the next steps for Darrow and the soldiers, and all of the other assorted tasks had been properly delegated, which left Miles time to take a nap. But rather than return to the inn, somehow Miles found himself at the clinic where Mustang was fighting for his life.  

_Only so he could give a report on Mustang’s condition when Hawkeye returned,_ he tried to assure himself.

Once inside the clinic, Miles found a very confusing scene in the waiting room. Alphonse Elric’s body rested on the floor, and though he was surrounded by a crowd of people, they all seemed nonplussed by his state of unconsciousness. Amestrians intermingled with Ishvalans, as they all waited for news on Mustang together. That there were no tears was probably a good sign.

“Any word?” Miles asked.

“The surgery is over,” Havoc said. “It went as well as it could have, according to the doctor. We’re just waiting for him to wake up now…”

It was left hanging, as though there were a possibility that he wouldn’t wake.

“And?” Miles asked.

“They can’t be sure about infection until he wakes,” Havoc said. “If it’s infected, the prognosis isn’t… well, let’s just hope it’s not infected.”

“That’s nearly impossible with stomach injuries,” Breda added. “Especially in this heat.”

“Thanks, Breda,” Havoc said dryly.

“Don’t be so negative,” Elder Shan said, tutting toward the Amestrians. “Ishvala will surely lead him back.”

“Because Ishvala cares deeply about the Flame Alchemist,” Elder Vikram muttered.   

This was not an argument he wanted to get in the middle of, as he’d heard enough of the Elders bickering over the past few months. Although they tried to present a united Ishvalan front to the others, Elders Shan and Vikram were opposed on most things, including Roy Mustang. Despite their disagreements though, they were actually good friends.

“And why is Alphonse on the ground?” Miles asked.

“He’s had a long day,” Edward said. “He couldn’t wait for his afternoon nap.”

Miles got the feeling that there was a story there, but he let it go without an explanation. Alphonse looked a bit pale, but his chest rose and fell rhythmically. With his face smooth and eyes closed, he seemed younger.

“Don’t worry,” Abra said. “Alphonse is just sleeping it off.”

“Sure,” Miles agreed, unwilling to inquire further. “So you’re just waiting for Mustang to wake up?”

Havoc and Edward nodded.

Miles didn’t want to sit and wait here. The last thing he wanted was to pack into the already overflowing waiting room to camp out for news. Miles already had ample to update Hawkeye with, whenever she returned from phoning Central, but before he could leave, the doctor strode in from the rear of the clinic. Sweat collected on his brow, and there was a blood splatter on his shoulder. Mustang’s blood.

“He’s awake,” he said, sharing a half-smile with the crowd.

Edward shook Alphonse, Havoc leaped up and whizzed past the doctor to the back, closely followed by Breda. Abra helped a bleary-eyed Alphonse off of the ground and smiled to the Elrics and Winry. Elder Shan hobbled up onto her cane and grabbed onto Elder Vikram, who grumbled but didn’t fight Elder’s Shan’s grasp.

Everyone seemed to know their place except Miles.

But then Abra held out her hand towards him. 

“Come,” she said. “You’ll be happy to report this to Riza.”

Saying that Mustang was “awake” was generous. His eyes were narrow slits, squinting toward the ceiling, and he bore large swaths of bandages up and down his stomach and smaller ones on his shoulder and leg. His hair stuck up strangely in the back, and his uniform was in tatters, both on his body and the floor.

Havoc and Breda had already taken up the honorable positions directly beside his bed and were flanked by the Elrics. The only chairs of the room were given to the Elders, though it seemed that Alphonse needed one more than Elder Vikram, who sneered at the proceedings until Elder Shan elbowed him.

Havoc had already begun trying to make Mustang laugh. The doctor chastised Havoc immediately, so Havoc paused and offered Mustang a smoke instead.

Which made Mustang laugh, followed by a violent wince.

“Told you so,” the doctor muttered.

“Hawkeye?” Mustang croaked out, as soon as his stomach had stopped quaking.

“Cleaning up the mess you made,” Breda said with a smile.

“She’s phoning Central as we speak,” Miles added from the back.

“So…what now?” Mustang asked, clutching at his stomach as he spoke.

There was a collective groaning.

“Dude, you were just shot. I think your priority should be holding onto your life right now,” Havoc said.

“But the situation in Kedesh is-” Mustang began.

“Volatile, we know,” Elder Shan said, tapping her cane on the floor. “But the Ishvalan Accords need you alive. And we are not completely helpless while you are in here. Give us some credit, General.”

“Thank you, Elder,” Mustang said, bowing his head as much as he could, which was only a few inches downward.  

“No,” Elder Vikram said. “Thank you, General.” At this, Mustang whipped his head up, before grimacing.  

“I’m only going to say this once,” Elder Vikram said, only after Elder Shan poked him with her cane. “Thank you for what you did today. You understand what this means to Ishval and to us.”

Elder Shan prodded Elder Vikram again to elaborate, but he’d said his piece and walked out moments later. It left an open chair, which Edward quickly pushed Alphonse into.

“You have done much to win our trust, General,” Elder Shan said. Her wrinkles beside her eyes crinkled as she flashed a wide grin towards Mustang.

“With all due respect, Elder,” Mustang forced out, before coughing. “That’s not why I did it.”

“I know,” Elder Shan said, her smile softening. “And that’s exactly my point. You didn’t have to take those bullets, but you did, and you’re a better man for it. When people speak of their pasts, they think of themselves as the same people as they were then. It’s one of the dreadful curses of being trapped only in our own mind. Because we live with ourselves day in and day out, we think that our own development is stagnant. That our minds are fixed and unchanging.

“But when you live as long as I have, you realize that changes within yourself take place in small increments. You don’t suddenly wake up a changed person; you wake up each day trying to be a little bit better. So as a spectator to your life, General, you’re a different man -a better man- than who you were the last time you were in Ishval.” Elder Shan clacked her cane against the floor. “And for what it’s worth, I hope you don’t get an infection and die.”

This made Mustang laugh again, and then cringe.  

“Sorry, General,” Elder Shan said, though it didn’t sound like she meant it, and then she too left.

“Good job, General,” Miles said, suddenly unwilling to linger. He’d seen Mustang awake, so he had enough information to give Hawkeye when she returned.  

“Thanks, Miles,” Mustang said, his voice low, and Miles knew that he meant it.

Miles murmured his goodbyes to the others and followed the narrow hallway back through the waiting room and into the Ishvalan sun. Hawkeye wouldn’t have returned yet, so Miles set off to find Scar, who was supposed to be calming the Kedeshian citizens down from their panicked frenzy. (Not that their panic was without just cause, but mobs were generally best avoided.)

As Miles wandered through the winding streets of Kedesh in his search for Scar, his thoughts returned to Mustang and whether he would return to Central for better care once he stabilized. The shambling ruins of Kedesh were no place to recover from a bullet to the stomach, and Mustang dying would disturb most of their plans. Of course in the wake of Mustang’s death they’d probably be able to pass some legislation in his honor, but maintaining support for Ishval would be much trickier. No, they needed Mustang alive for Ishvalan progress to continue. Besides, Mustang and Miles had developed some kind of… rapport. Even Miles acknowledged to himself that in a different lifetime they could have been friends.

Most of the streets were quiet after the day’s attack, but the silence hid the dark fears that were stirring in the heart of his people. Gustav was still out there, and he was single-handedly undoing all of the hard work Miles and the other Ishvalan leaders had done to coax Ishvalan refugees back to their ancestral home. Between the attack today and the ones of the previous weeks, it was obvious that Kedesh, and Ishval by extension, was still dangerous.

And there would be others. Other Gustavs. Other Amestrians who embraced the ideals of the Ishvalan Extermination. Monsters of the Amestrian military’s own making.

It would be easy for Miles to hate Amestrians, but his own mixed blood was his saving grace, refusing to let him make sweeping generalizations. He was _Z’hoom,_ and he’d learned that he was just as capable as any of his fellow cadets at the academy. But that hadn’t stopped their hatred from transforming into verbal and physical abuse.

When Miles reached the edge of the market, he became discouraged that he’d seen no sign of Scar, but then down the road, Miles spotted a crowd of Ishvalans gathering and in the midst of the people, a man with jagged white hair faced away from him.

“Cleric Heridas!” Miles yelled. As he got closer, he saw that the crowd was displaying varying degrees of fear, but they hadn’t succumbed to violence yet, which Miles counted as a win in his book.  

“Major Miles,” Scar said pleasantly. “I was just assuring these people that the Amestrian military is working its absolute hardest to bring the Sand Alchemist to justice.”

Scar’s stress was mostly hidden, but he was betrayed by fidgeting hands. Miles sent him a pointed glance towards them, and Scar promptly hid his hands behind his back.  

“These are the lives of Ishvalans. Of our children,” one woman pleaded, her lips trembling. “I can’t lose my family. Not again.”

“We are doing our very best to catch him,” Scar said. “The Amestrian government is in full support of our efforts, and while we can’t give you the specific details, we are not far from apprehending him.”

If Scar wanted to lie to the Ishvalan citizens, Miles wasn’t going to stop him.  

“The Amestrian government is supporting us now, but what happens when they change their minds?” a young man asked, leaning against the neighboring building. Miles was reminded of the Elrics, more young Ishvalans who didn’t carry injuries of the War on their face or in their gait. But his question was serious enough for a teenager, despite his gangly body and acne-speckled face.

“The point of the Ishvalan Accords,” Scar began, “is to build a stronger relationship between Amestris and-”

“ _Samti ‘al ze zayin_!” the teenager shouted, and the crowd gasped. Miles knew enough to infer that it meant something profane.

It was only because Miles’s familiarity with Scar that he could detect how angry he was, but rather than chastising the boy, Scar tried to alleviate his anger and the anger of the crowd, which was riled up by the boy’s words. Scar spoke gently, but he had little to convey, so his soothing voice did nothing to calm the boy.

“I will not let Amestris walk all over us! Not again!” the boy said, punching his fist at the air. “I don’t care if there’s another war. Let them come, because I don’t care if I die! Ishval is for Ishvalans!”

_Youth_. Miles wanted to roll his eyes.

Not that the kid was entirely wrong, of course. He could understand why it was humiliating to beg for scraps from their murderers, their oppressors, their wealthy neighbors built on a foundation of bones. But Ishval had no other choice. If there was anything actually useful he’d learned from the military academy, it was that pride was the most dangerous sin. (He hadn’t realized how true that would come to be, considering little Selim Bradley, who lived on somewhere in Central.)

 “You are young and naïve,” Scar said quietly. “You underestimate the value of your own life.”

“I don’t care about my life! Ishval-”

“Ishval will not exist unless we make it so,” Scar said. “We have to create it again, and fighting another war with Amestris will lead to nothing but more corpses. We have buried enough Ishvalans.”

The boy didn’t look satisfied with Scar’s answers, but after a moment’s hesitation, he sneered and stormed off.

“Boys like that will be dangerous,” one woman said, as they watched him retreat. “They were born with the blood of a soldier.”  

Even after they’d assuaged the Ishvalan crowd the best that they could with platitudes of justice, the woman’s words kept ringing in Miles’ ears. It was all he could think about as he and Scar walked back to the inn through the quiet Kedeshian streets, abandoned as the day slipped into night. The people dispersed and the stars twinkled in the distance. Hopefully Hawkeye would be back soon, and he could pass along the good news.

“Do you think another war is inevitable?” Miles asked a few minutes later, angry at himself for dwelling on this issue at all. Usually he preferred to take problems one day at a time, because moping around accomplished nothing substantive. And yet, it felt like oversight to ignore this pressing question.

“I don’t know,” Scar said, thankfully not dismissing it out of hand. “I hope not, but then again, I don’t put a lot of credence in hope.”

“But you put it in Ishvala,” Miles said.

“I do,” Scar said.

“Even though Ishvala has overseen horrors onto Her people.”

“I don’t understand the way Ishvala operates,” Scar said, glancing upward. “We cannot control Her will and Her plans. All we can do is teach children that people are much the same, despite their seemingly insurmountable differences, and that hatred brings only pain. Teach them that war is a terrible affliction that no one survives. If they can understand that, how can war still exist?”

“For a warrior, you sound an awful lot like a pacifist. Is that even something that you can teach? Or is that something each generation needs to learn on their own?” Miles asked, recalling his days at the military academy where rows and rows of boyish, eager soldiers stood, dreaming of glory and greatness. Eager for martyrdom or at least to die a glorious, bloody death that would etch their names in the history books.  

“Mustang learned it eventually,” Scar said. “As did I.”

“How many had to die before Mustang learned?” Miles asked, keeping his tone light.

“I thought you were fond of Mustang,” Scar said.

Miles chose his words carefully, “I am fond of the man Mustang has become. But when we are all dead, it will begin again. It’s the inescapable cycle; that humans, if given a choice, will always choose the wrong path, away from their own best interests.” And as they arrived back at the inn and Miles could see Hawkeye’s long strides in the distance from the direction of the train station, Scar laughed. He _laughed_.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Scar said, amusement still etched in his forehead. “You just reminded me of my brother.”

Miles knew a compliment when he heard one, so he bowed his head in thanks, which Scar returned.

As Hawkeye approached, Miles knew she was too professional to yell out for news, but perhaps feeling generous, Miles did so without prompting.

“He’s awake!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Relief and joy intermingled on Hawkeye’s face, and she increased her stride so much that she was practically running, her smile wide and her uniform disheveled. But even that wouldn’t keep her from her duties.

“I got word from Central. From the Fuhrer directly,” she said, still smiling, even if it had lost some of the glow. “Within the next few days, they’ll be sending in reinforcements.”

“More soldiers?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “Some of the best minds of the Investigative division to finally sniff out Gustav.”

“That should be acceptable,” Miles said.

“Second Lieutenant Darrow is getting shipped back to Central, but…” her face fell slightly. “The other soldiers will remain.”

“What?” Scar asked, but Miles only nodded. He’d figured as much.

“I’m not any happier than you are,” she said, shaking her head. “But that’s just how it goes sometimes. Parliament is going to be hellish about this. I don’t envy the Fuhrer.”

“Is that all, Captain?” Miles asked, knowing that she was dying to see Mustang with her own eyes.

“Yes, sir,” she said and saluted.

“I’m barely part of the military anymore,” Miles said, gesturing to his Ishvalan garb. Hawkeye, perhaps buoyed by the news about Mustang, laughed.

“You can’t take the soldier out of the man,” she said, and her smile dampened a bit. “Not people like us.” With that, she fled towards the clinic, leaving Scar and Miles alone again.

“Come,” Scar said, already halfway up the cobblestone path to the inn. “Ariyn Fitzgerald will be waiting for us inside.” Miles didn’t bother holding in his groan.

Calming Representative Fitzgerald down from her panic over Mustang’s injury was an out-of-body experience for Miles. He wasn’t sure if she was genuinely worried for him (unlikely), feared a bullet wound of her own (possible) or was disturbed by the implications this would have for the Ishvalan Accords (the likeliest of the three options). Yet, there was the tinge of self-preservation in her voice, as though she feared an Ishvalan attack any moment now.

“The people are going to riot,” she said, her hands shaking.

“Don’t throw out words if you don’t mean them,” Scar said. “If you fear for your safety, flee to Central.”

“But you will not get any of the glory you desire,” Miles added, and then he cursed himself for doing so. This was an opportunity to get her out of Ishval, consequences be damned. They would find another way to get the Accords passed.

But Miles just wasn’t the type of person to damn the consequences. In the scheme of the Ishvalan Accords, her presence, while annoying and awful, probably would bode well for the final outcome, assuming she was pleased with the results.

Which she seemed to be thus far. Since she’d discovered the proclivity of growing wheat and Cretan cotton, she seemed much more amiable to civility, assuming she got favorable tariffs for her region. Miles didn’t care much, as long as Ishval got the support it needed.

Ariyn Fitzgerald eventually calmed enough to slip upstairs to her room, and by then, some of the people from Mustang’s bedside had trickled back to the inn, looking as exhausted as Miles felt.

Madam Abra and the Resembool trio had arrived first, then Havoc and Breda. Finally, the other Ishvalans – and who knew where they’d been- arrived, Elder Vikram and Elder Shan.

Hawkeye had stayed by Mustang’s side. Of course. And it wasn’t like she was needed here yet. The group was barely able to stay awake to eat, never mind start planning for tomorrow.

But before Miles fell asleep, he watched Scar- Grand Cleric Heridas- pray, as he did every night.

It brought him peace, something Miles wasn’t familiar with.  When Scar bowed his head in prayer, Ishvalan hymns passing soundlessly on his lips, his x-shaped scar faded into the shadows and his expression loosened from satisfaction. Finding meaning in higher powers was a fool’s errand to Miles, but that didn’t mean its effect was any less important to the religious lot.  

Scar had finished his prayer and risen from the ground when he caught Miles’ eyes on him.

“Miles,” he said. “You once asked for proof of Ishvala’s miracles. We saw one today.”

Miles could have argued, but it wasn’t worth it, so instead of responding, he closed his eyes and found the peace that came with sleep instead.

It was good he fell asleep first anyway, because Scar snored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Things seem to finally be looking up. Let’s see how long that lasts…. 
> 
> Next week, we'll see things from Edward's POV!


	13. Edward Elric II

Just because he’d gotten into bed didn’t mean that Edward was tired.

Since Alphonse got his body back -and Edward no longer had to sleep for two- Edward had found sleep more elusive. Which meant that, despite the trying day, Edward’s legs wouldn’t stop vibrating, and every time he closed his eyes, he replayed a continuous loop of horrors. A blur of blue collapsing on the rooftop. A bloody fist weakly grasping at Edward’s shirt. Riza’s quiet “no” ringing in his ears.

Edward couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t lay here for another moment trapped in his thoughts. Edward sat up and glanced over to Alphonse, who was curled around a blanket pulled up to his chin.

Guess it would have to be a solo venture then.

So Edward slipped into some comfortable clothing and snuck out of the room. The last few steps on the stairwell creaked, so he took extra care to tiptoe over them, listening after every step for any movement from down the hall.  

A nagging voice in the back of his head (that sounded a lot like Major Miles) warned him not to leave the inn. It was dangerous, given Gustav’s recent boldness (and his own past interest in Edward’s heritage).

And yet, Kedesh was beautiful in the dark, even if its nightlife was non-existent. The quiet on the streets contrasted with the havoc throughout the day, and snaking through the narrow passageways always felt exciting, entrusting only the moonlight as his guide.

If anyone discovered he was gone, he was going to get chewed out so hard, but Edward, despite what anyone said, could take care of himself. Maybe leaving was immature, but honestly, Edward thought that it was progress enough that he’d considered the ramifications of leaving first. In the olden days, he would have left without a second thought.

But rather than merely enjoying a midnight stroll through Kedesh, Edward had a particular destination in mind.  

In what felt like no time at all, Edward stood before Mustang’s clinic, momentarily worrying that the clinic’s door would be locked (concerns he’d never entertained when he’d been an alchemist), but the door, like most in Kedesh, didn’t even have a locking mechanism.   

Edward crept through the waiting room and down the narrow, brightly-lit hallway to the doorway of Mustang’s room.  To be honest, he didn’t know why he was here. His feelings towards Mustang were… complicated.

Because Mustang had been his commanding officer and a real jerk, but at the same time, Mustang had been one of the few people that Edward had known was on his side. And he’d known the truth behind Edward’s greatest regret -human transmutation- but despite knowing the horror that Edward had inflicted upon his own brother, he hadn’t turned away.

Although he wasn’t proud of it, Edward had grown somewhat fond of the old bastard.

Which clashed dramatically with his opinion of the _Flame Alchemist_ , the heartless villain who’d burned his homeland to ashes, who’d incinerated his people alive, who’d devastated his homeland with a few snaps of his fingers. The _Flame Alchemist_ deserved hatred and scorn. Mustang deserved…

Edward didn’t know.

Edward eased Mustang’s door open, suddenly realizing that, given the late hour, Hawkeye and Mustang were probably sleeping. At first glance into the room, his heart sunk, realizing he’d risked leaving the inn for nothing. Hawkeye’s head drooped over the armrest of the nearest chair, her mouth open and eyes shut, and Mustang laid in bed, completely still. It took a few moments for Edward to notice Mustang’s eyes blinking up at the ceiling.   

Edward took care to walk quietly towards Mustang, but before Edward had taken two steps towards his bedside, Hawkeye was already in a defensive stance, hand hovering over her holster.  

“Sorry,” Edward said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hawkeye didn’t bother denying it, just nodding towards Edward, before striding to Mustang’s other side and asking about his current condition.

“I’m fine,” Mustang said. At Edward and Hawkeye’s shared disbelief, he insisted, “Honestly. I’m fine.” Mustang paused. “I’m as well as could be expected. The doctor came by half an hour ago. All good news so far.”

“That’s good,” Hawkeye said, but she didn’t sound as relieved as Edward felt.

“Isn’t that really good?” Edward asked.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Hawkeye said, taking a seat on the edge of Mustang’s bed and sharing a quiet smile with Mustang. Her hair had fallen out of its usual updo, and now she brushed back a strand behind her ears. Despite her unkempt appearance, there was an authenticity in her gaze that Edward couldn’t ever remember noticing, and it was entirely directed at Mustang. Edward began to question his decision to visit them, because it now felt like he was imposing on something deeply personal, and it made his stomach churn.  

“So, Edward, why are you here?” Mustang asked, turning back to Edward with his characteristic smirk. Never mind that he’d been at death’s door mere hours ago. His bed tilted upward, so that Edward could almost imagine him sitting behind his desk at Eastern Command, assigning Edward another thankless task.  

“Well, because I was really worried about you?” Edward said. It came out more sarcastically than he’d intended, though it was probably for the best.  

“Wow, I feel so touched,” Mustang responded, sarcastically as well. “Couldn’t sleep without checking up on me?”

“In your dreams,” Edward said, rolling his eyes, but he was glad to be on familiar bantering ground.

“Is everything all right, Edward?” Riza asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Edward said and pulled a chair up to Mustang’s bedside. The chair screeched against the ribbed flooring, and Edward plopped into it with faux-confidence. Perhaps to hide that he had no idea why he was here either.

“How long you gonna be stuck here, Mustang?” Edward asked, crossing his arms.

“A while,” Hawkeye answered before Mustang had a chance to.

“Staying in Kedesh for treatment?”

“Probably,” Mustang said. “Unless it gets infected.”

There was an uneasy silence.

“Why are you here, Edward?” Hawkeye asked, and Edward shrugged.

“I couldn’t sleep. And if I just wandered around Kedesh, I’d probably get hell from Major Miles for recklessness, so I came here.”

“Alone?” Mustang said. “Even though Gustav has as much interest in you as he does me, and with me out of the way… well, you probably just moved up on his list.”

“Eh,” Edward said, shrugging again. “It’s been fine. Gustav has to sleep at some point, right? I doubt he has the persistence to be swooping across Kedesh, searching for wayward Elrics all night on the off-chance we’re out of bed.”

“You’re cared about by many, many people, Edward,” Riza said. “Take care of yourself. I know it’s probably hard being a lot less… able than you were before, but that doesn’t mean you’re not valuable. It just means you have to change the way you approach the world.”

Luckily, Edward was saved from a response, because the doctor walked in, checked Mustang’s vitals, took notes in his file, and tutted a few times. He left muttering about peace and quiet in his clinic.

“You’re lucky, Mustang,” Edward said, after the doctor closed the door behind him. “That you’re alive, I mean.”

“I know,” Mustang said, staring down at his hands, folded loosely in his lap. His Flame Alchemy gloves sat within reach on his bedside, though he hardly needed them now that he’d gone through the gate.

Just the sight of the gloves had once made Edward want to hurl, or maybe just hurl something at Mustang’s head. But long-term exposure had dulled his anger towards the gloves. And towards Mustang, though it was particularly difficult to be angry at someone who’d just taken bullets for a bunch of kids.

“Edward?” Mustang asked.

“Hm?”

“What town in Ishval were you from?”

Edward straightened and caught Hawkeye doing the same.

“Does it matter?”

Hawkeye rose from Mustang’s bedside and headed towards the exit.  

“You can stay if you want to, Riza,” Edward said. “I don’t mind.” And Hawkeye sat back down. There was silence, but Edward didn’t want to break it.  

Mustang kept opening his mouth and then closing it, his face scrunched in frustration, but after a minute, he finally got some words out. “It-it _does_ matter, Fullmetal. It’s…. a part of who you are, and I’m just trying to understand you and what you’ve been hiding all of these years.”

“No, I don’t think you’re trying to understand me at all,” Edward said, unable to squelch the rush of anger. “You’re just trying to decide whether or not to flagellate yourself over this. It’s just another excuse to hate yourself even more! It has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you, Edward,” Mustang said, his fingers clenched into a fist. Hawkeye, on the other hand, was gripping the side table so tightly her skin had turned white. “I got you into the military-”

“Which worked out in the long run,” Edward said.

“But I didn’t know you were Ishvalan! I didn’t know that the very military I got you to join was the same one that killed your family and destroyed your country. The same one that would have killed you if anyone found out! How could I have done that? How could I not have known?”

“I’m only going to say this once, Mustang, so enjoy it,” Edward said. He couldn’t look at Mustang while he spoke, so instead he watched the clock on the far wall tick forward. “If you hadn’t found Al and me, I don’t know what would have happened to us. He might still be trapped in the armor, or maybe I would have… ended it all.” In his desperation to explain, a nugget of truth slipped out, but he pressed onward.

“Who knows, I guess,” he continued. “But it all worked out, and it wouldn’t have been possible without you.”

His piece said, he turned back to Mustang, re-crossing his arms across his chest.

“Thank you for saying that, Fullmetal, but if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have ever been put in the position to complete the human transmutation. You’d be in Ishval, whatever city you’re from, living a happy, normal life surrounded by your family and friends.”

Mustang was exhausting. Edward tried to remind himself that, while Edward had had many years to come to terms with the complexities of his and Mustang’s odd relationship, Mustang had only been given a handful of weeks.

“The human transmutation was my mistake alone, Mustang,” Edward said, his voice low. “That’s not on anyone but me.”

“If-”

“There are a lot of ifs, Mustang. If that bastard Hohenheim hadn’t left. If the War had never happened. If my mom didn’t get sick. Ifs are too exhausting. There’s no point.”

“When did you get so grown up?” Mustang asked.

“Since I left your presence,” Edward said dryly.

“You’ve grown into a fine young gentleman,” Hawkeye said, a teasing smile pulling at her lips.

“Young,” Edward grumbled and pouted to himself.

“You know, Edward, you’re younger than we were when we joined the military,” Mustang said.

“Many _many_ years ago,” Edward pointed out.

“Indeed,” Mustang said, his eyes darkening. “If there were more men like you, there wouldn’t have been an Ishvalan War at all.”

And as Edward looked at Mustang, he saw the self-loathing that Mustang carried like another skin. He hid it well, and for many years, Edward hadn’t even known of its existence, covered with flippant banter and a womanizing persona. Edward had assumed that Mustang had left his sins in the Ishvalan sands to be swept away when the wind blew, but when Edward had asked Hawkeye about their experiences in Ishval, he’d learned that he’d been completely wrong. Mustang (and Hawkeye) carried their sins as burdens on their backs wherever they went, whatever they did. Their regret didn’t cleanse them of wrong-doing, but it did make Edward wonder if maybe he _was_ hiding his birthplace out of spite.

Suddenly all of his reasons for holding it back felt foolish. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, and he tightened his fist to stop the shaking in his fingers, but he doubted he was going to regret this.

“ _Netanya_.”  Edward stared defiantly at Mustang, as though he could use bravado to get through this conversation intact.

“What?”

“The city I am from. It’s _Netanya_.” Hawkeye gasped. She knew what this meant. So did Mustang.

“So I did-” Mustang broke off. “It _was_ me then. How long have you known? Did you know when we met?”

Not for the first time, Edward wondered what Mustang had been like when he’d first returned from Ishval. Hawkeye too. Her hands were trembling, but Mustang was deathly still, his gaze fixated solely on Edward. His intense stare felt stifling, and though Edward wanted to avoid it, he didn’t break away.

“You were there, yeah,” Edward said. “But I don’t know if you were the one who… I can’t know… you understand, right?”

There were questions he didn’t need answered. Sure, he could walk them through _Netanya_ , through the square that had held his cousin’s wedding, through the marketplace with its colorful knickknacks, through the winding roads up to the familial home of his grandparents, right near his parent’s house.  Sure, he could ask them, but how could they remember pointless details about a town they’d visited only once?

And why would he want to know?

“It wasn’t just you, General,” Hawkeye said gently. “I was there too. I… I killed people there too.”

From the file Edward had seen, this was only technically true. Hawkeye had been there, but she had merely stopped in on her way to another town. Snipers were much more useful against enemies that fought back. Civilians rarely warranted the expertise and finesse of a skilled marksman. Or so the file had implied.

“Did you know when we first met?” Mustang asked.

“No,” Edward said. “I knew who you were, and I could put two and two together, but I didn’t _know.”_

“When did you find out?” Hawkeye asked, her voice was steady, but her hands still shaking.

“Not long after I moved to East City,” he said. “When I had down time, I read through all of the available military files on the Ishvalan War.”

“All of them?” Hawkeye said. “No one asked you about your interest in the War?”

Edward wanted to laugh. Although his nerves were on edge, Mustang- his former superior and current frenemy- sat paralyzed, for some reason terrified of Edward’s rejection.

“Nope. It was a little odd, I guess, but nothing suspicious,” Edward said, leaning back in his chair. He wanted to kick his feet back onto Mustang’s bed, but maybe that wasn’t the best idea right now. “It’s not like the files ever had anything really classified, like the experimentation or the creation of the philosopher’s stones.”

“You still shouldn’t have read those at that age,” Hawkeye said. “I’ve seen a few of them- they’re gruesome.”

“I was part of the military then,” Edward said with a shrug. “And besides, it was still my story. Those files aren’t just something I can pretend didn’t happen.” He paused. “You both know that as well as anybody.”

There was a silence that stretched a few minutes. Edward kept staring at the clock, which ticked on a second at a time and paid no mind to the serious moments beside a hospital bed.

“Did you ever think about killing me?” Mustang asked. “When you found out,” he clarified. As if Edward needed clarification. He remembered that day well.

Edward would never bring the Ishvalan files back to his dorm, even though the Amestrian military had copies of military documents to spare. It was because Edward couldn’t chance Al finding them. Edward had failed to protect Alphonse over and over again, but at the very least, Edward could shield him from the horrors of Ishval. Al didn’t need to know the gory details, but Edward couldn’t resist the knowledge. That had always been his fatal flaw.

So Edward read the Ishvalan files cover to cover when he had free moments here and there, usually between assignments when he was bored at Eastern Command.

But he had to wait until the nightmares from the previous file had mostly subsided. Alphonse never asked what prompted them, and Edward never shared.

The files on the Southern campaign were extensive. Rather than jumping to _Netanya,_ Edward had read them all in chronological order. This was to better understand the War and not to put off reading about the destruction of his former home. (Edward had always been good at lying to himself.)

But he couldn’t put it off forever, and Edward remembered sitting between the stacks, a thin folder solely on _Netanya_ propped against his knees, all while Alphonse was distracted at the dorms with a recently found stray cat. The first few pages listed notable soldiers and alchemists there, the commanding officers, the general strategies, and then the outcomes. The outcome was always the same.

Edward had considered returning the file back to where he’d found it and forgetting it had ever existed, but he couldn’t. That just wasn’t who he was, so he devoured the file as quickly as possible, as though he could speedread his way out of pain, but the emotionless words on the page, untinged with passion or rage, clinically described the systematic genocide of his townsmen. When he’d finished the file, his brain burned with fresh images. Of Mustang snapping his fingers and setting his childhood home aflame or incinerating his neighbors, all with a casual smirk, as though it were easy to kill people.

Edward was deeply lost in thought, which he didn’t realize until Hawkeye shifted, and Edward got embarrassed he’d been distracted so easily.

“What was your question again?” Edward asked, and if anything signaled that the conversation was weird, it was that Mustang didn’t say anything about his inattention. Just merely parroted the question back.

“Did you ever think about killing me?”

“No,” Edward said. “I don’t kill people.”

“Then severely injuring me?” Mustang asked. It sounded like a joke, but Edward knew it wasn’t, so he gave a serious response.

“Sometimes,” Edward said, ignoring the wince he got from both Hawkeye and Mustang, who eyed each other with something like sadness.

“But I wouldn’t have,” Edward said, unable to keep the pleading out of his voice. He needed to make them understand this. That as many times as he’d fantasized about destroying Mustang in dozens of different ways, he would have never done it. If he hadn’t done it when he’d been at his most angry- right after he’d seen the files on _Netanya,_ when he got confirmation that Mustang’s pristine white gloves bore his people’s blood- he would have never done it.

(When Edward had thought Mustang had murdered Maria Ross in cold blood, was a close second, but he didn’t need to bring that up again.)

“When did you read the files?” Hawkeye asked.

“About a year after I joined? A little less,” he said. Edward and Mustang’s relationship had been rocky throughout the first year, even for them, but at least now Mustang understood why. At the time, they’d probably chalked it up to having a twelve year old in the military.

“Then why did you ask me about Ishval, Edward?” Hawkeye asked. “If you already knew everything, why-”

“Because I didn’t know everything,” Edward said. “I knew dates and numbers, but I didn’t know anything really important. Like what it was like. For you or even for Ishvalans. I… _was_ ignorant, because it was easier to hide behind facts instead of feelings. Because it was easier to hate from a distance than it was to try and understand. So I really do appreciate you telling me about Ishval, because I… needed to hear it.” The awkward words were heavy on his tongue, but he couldn’t risk his meaning getting diluted or mistaken if he created some kind of pretense.

“I didn’t tell you about Ishval, so you could _sympathize_ with me,” Hawkeye said, eyes flashing.

“I know.”

In many ways, Edward wanted to be anywhere but in this room, and yet, these were things that needed to be said. He’d noticed the strange looks since they’d found out about his heritage, and it didn’t seem fair that they got to mope without him getting a say in all of this.

“We’re mass murderers, Edward,” Hawkeye said, gesturing to herself and Mustang, whose dark eyes hardened at her words. “In a just society, we deserve to be punished for our crimes.”

“But we don’t live in a just society,” Edward said. “You- both of you- are trying to do whatever you can to make amends and to make sure it never happens again. And I think that that’s worth a lot.”

“No, it’s not,” Mustang said. “No matter what arrangement we leave the Accords with, it’ll not be enough. It’ll never be enough. I… I killed more people than you could even fathom. I watched as they screamed themselves hoarse and flailed before they were incinerated. Their inner organs would fail them first and their skin would ignite, and when the wind blew towards me, I would smell the roasting flesh-”

“Shut up!”

“Don’t you want me to continue, Fullmetal? I’m just telling you what it was like. I’m just telling you what I did. You really think that I could make amends for something like that?”

“Shut up, you wrinkly old bastard!” Edward said. “You know what I think? I think you hate yourself so much that you just want everyone else to hate you too.”

“What-”

“No, that’s exactly it,” Edward said, his words slurring together as he reasoned through Mustang’s twisted mind. “You can’t think of any reason that I wouldn’t hate you and want to kill you, because underneath all of those annoying smirks, you’re insecure. Well, guess what, Mustang, you don’t get to tell me how I feel. And I think that you’re doing the best thing you could be. You’re right- it doesn’t outweigh all of the bad things, but as much damage as you did, you don’t get to take all of the blame for Ishval single-handedly.”

“If I had murdered someone in the middle of a Central street, I’d go to prison,” Mustang said with a sneer. “I murdered thousands of people, so I’m a General.”

“You know what I think, Mustang? You want to be punished. You need it to be able to live with yourself.” Edward sighed. “If you eventually get tried by a court of law, you’ll find judicial justice, but that’s not where you find the _right_ thing to do. A courtroom will give you a prison sentence or an execution. How the _kelev_ is that going to help anyone! The only person that helps is yourself. You’re being selfish.”

“It wouldn’t be for a long time,” Hawkeye said.

“But if you’re climbing up the ranks, becoming Fuhrer, and abolishing the military state for the wrong reasons, I don’t like it,” Edward said. “If you’re only doing it to create a government that will see your actions as crimes, you’re just seeking punishment. But if you’re doing it so that the Ishvalan people will live better, so that the Amestrian people will live better, then it’s different.”

“Edward-”

“No! I mean it,” Edward said, tapping his automail leg against the clinic’s flooring. “You’ve spent so long stewing in your self-hatred that you would rather be punished than do the best thing for the very people you sinned against.”

“Edward-”

“No! You are alive! Do you know what I would give for my-” Edward broke off. “You are living, and maybe I don’t really believe in Ishvala, but I think that you’re alive for some reason. And maybe I’m being presumptuous, but I think it’s to help people, to take power away from the military. But damn it, Mustang, you’re alive. Don’t you realize how much of a blessing that is?”

Edward hadn’t expected to come in and berate Mustang and Hawkeye. They’d always loomed larger than life, but he was learning that it was much more complicated than just the _Flame Alchemist_ VS. Roy Mustang or the _Hawk’s eye_ VS. Riza Hawkeye. There was no way to separate them from their monikers, no way to separate them from their sins. Just because it was easier to think of them as separate didn’t mean that they were.   

“I don’t understand how you don’t hate me,” Mustang said.

Edward sighed, “When I was in the military, I knew I didn’t have it in me to carry out some kind of crazy vigilante justice, and if I wasn’t going to do that, then I just had to… let it be.”

 “That probably sounds easier than it was,” Hawkeye said.

“No, it wasn’t easy, but… holding onto hate wasn’t a luxury I could have afforded at the time. I don’t… I don’t forgive you for what you did, but I don’t hate you. I haven’t hated you since the moment I met you.” 

“That’s very wise of you, Fullmetal,” Mustang said, nodding slowly. “You’re a far better man than I am.”

“Er. Don’t say that, Mustang. Now it’s just weird,” Edward said, scratching behind his neck awkwardly.

This made Mustang and Hawkeye laugh, and the room felt lighter. This wasn’t over, but they were moving in the right direction. In a way, it would never be over, but despite everything, Edward didn’t want to cut them out of his life, even if it still felt like a betrayal to his people.

They continued talking about light topics until Mustang’s eyes became heavy, and Edward knew it was time to go.

“Go to sleep, Mustang,” Edward said. “You look awful.”

“Thanks, Fullmetal, but I’m not tired. I slept all day,” Mustang said, but it was punctuated with a yawn and a following wince.

“Sure, sure,” Edward said, sending him a flippant wave, but by the time Edward had finished his goodbyes to Hawkeye, Mustang was already asleep.

“He looks like a kid when he sleeps,” Edward whispered.

Hawkeye stifled giggles, “Don’t let him catch you saying that.” She straightened. “Be careful on your way back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Edward said. “It’s nearly dawn now. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks for coming, Edward. Your compassion is… overwhelming, as much as you try to hide it.”

Edward didn’t know how to respond, so he ducked his head and closed the door behind him, Hawkeye’s soft smile the last thing he saw.

He snuck out of the clinic, careful not to run into either of the doctors, though one had checked on Mustang multiple times throughout his visit without so much as a disapproving glance Edward’s way. Maybe it was just Edward’s instinct to sneak away from all doctors. Regardless, it was pleasant to step back into the crisp Ishvalan air.

That had gone surprisingly well. Maybe Edward was just getting older, but Mustang didn’t seem like the insufferable bastard he used to be. Or maybe it was just Mustang getting older. Or maybe, despite everything, underneath his cold bastard appearance, Mustang was a good man. With many many flaws.

And, finally, Mustang’s heart was in the right place. Of this, Edward was certain. That he laid in a hospital bed riddled with bullets was confirmation enough.

Edward was nearly to Kedesh’s main square when he noticed something peculiar. The sand on the road, usually firm, pressed down by constant traffic, rustled in the gentle wind. The hairs on Edward’s neck stood on end, and he got a strange feeling in his gut.

“Edward Elric!” a female voice shouted. He spun to find Ariyn Fitzgerald of all people rushing to catch up with him.

Edward let out a breath, but he couldn’t find the energy to smile at her.

“Hello, Representative. What are you doing out this late?”

“I was just taking a walk to clear my head,” she said. “I know it’s dangerous, but I couldn’t stop picturing all of those bullets slamming into General Mustang! It’s all so horrible.”

Ariyn Fitzgerald’s exposure to violence was clearly limited, though Edward didn’t know why this particular incident was so traumatizing, compared to the previous Kedeshian attacks.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Edward said. “I’m just heading back now. Do you want to join me?”

He didn’t want to offer, but Ariyn Fitzgerald would be helpless if something dangerous did happen, so he had to. She accepted, but they’d hardly taken two steps when the strange twisting in his stomach returned. Maybe Ariyn’s presence hadn’t caused it after all.

He didn’t want to panic her for no reason, not when she’d finally calmed down, so he casually suggested that they take the short cut back. She acquiesced, but they maintained their leisurely pace, despite Edward’s racing heart.

“You visited Mustang?” she asked, and he gave a curt nod. Something wasn’t right here. He lengthened his stride, hoping she’d get the hint.

“How was he doing?” she asked.

But Edward didn’t get the chance to answer.

A loud crunch billowed through the alley. Edward spun, finding a figure completely cloaked in white, except for a sliver of fair skin beside his narrow eyes.

“Elric,” he grunted. “And, look, what a pleasant surprise. The politician.”

“Gustav,” Edward said, easily projecting confidence. He didn’t fear Gustav, not when he’d seen so much worse. Gustav was just a racist asshole, not a homunculus willing to kill an entire country to become a god.

“As soon as I start fighting,” he whispered to Ariyn. “Run.” She was shaking, and Edward worried she wouldn’t even be able to do that much. But the alleyway was dark, with the moonlight unable to penetrate the narrow crevice, so she’d have a good chance, assuming Gustav was properly distracted.

“ _Z’hoom_ , I have waited so many years to purge you from this earth,” Gustav said, his voice muted underneath the cloth. “But it’s very disappointing. I’ll have to wait a little longer.”

What?

Was he just going to let them go?

It was immediately clear that, whatever his plan was, that was not it. The Sand Alchemist clapped his glove-covered hands together, and pressed them onto the sand. Almost immediately a sandstorm swirled around Edward.

“Run!” he yelled, but he couldn’t tell whether she had listened or even heard. The gusts seemed to take the sound right out of him, and the little pinpricks of the sand specks pinched his exposed skin. He squinted through the dust but couldn’t see anything except the storm.

“Easy does it, _Z’hoom_. Too bad it has to be this way. I had much more elegant plans,” Gustav said from behind Edward. So Edward kicked his automail leg back as hard as he could.  

He was rewarded with a shout, and the sand began to clear. Edward could finally distinguish the outline of the adjacent buildings and even the kneeling frame of Gustav. No sign of Ariyn Fitzgerald. Maybe she’d gotten away.

Edward threw a punch back, his fist finding flesh. Gustav collapsed, blood trickling down his forehead and soaking into the sand. For a moment, Edward thought Gustav was beaten.

But before Edward could land another blow, Gustav’s hand darted out from underneath his body and grabbed Edward’s ankle- his real ankle- and pulled.

Edward lost his balance and fell to the sand, and suddenly they were wrestling.

Which gave Edward the advantage. He’d been sparring with Teacher since he was practically a toddler.

But fighting Gustav left Edward distracted. All Gustav needed was one moment. One split second to clap his hands together and he’d have a weapon Edward couldn’t counter.

And Gustav got his chance when Edward was momentarily distracted by Gustav’s flailing legs beneath him.   

Gustav clapped, and the sand, which had been stagnant beneath them, erupted from the ground into Edward’s body. Not around his body, into it.

For a moment, the world froze.  

Edward looked down and saw tiny rods of sand embedded… everywhere. In his shoulder, in his arms. In his stomach. He couldn’t feel any pain, but he couldn’t move any of his appendages either. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but they remained frozen.

Gustav shoved him back, before transmuting the sand again.

Edward struggled to keep his eyes open. Although it was dark in the alleyway, it was darker still when he closed his eyes. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from doing so.

The last thing he saw was Gustav’s sliver of skin peeking out underneath his bandanna, and Edward fervently hoped that, at the very least, Ariyn Fitzgerald had gotten away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, we’re going to stay with Edward and see what happened… 
> 
> Thanks for reading! See you next Tuesday.


	14. Edward Elric III

When Edward came to, it took a few moments before he realized that he didn’t know where he was. His mind raced through possible locations, each as unlikely as the next. Granny’s. His military dorm. Madam Abra’s inn. And then he remembered what had happened with Gustav and groaned.

Wherever he was, it was dark. Completely dark. Edward wasn’t bound, which was almost disappointing, as it had been a kidnapping necessity back when he’d been an alchemist. But now he was essentially helpless, regardless of whether he could clap or draw a circle.

But he could still run. Could still throw a punch and escape.

And then Edward tried to stand.

Which was a bad idea.

Under the weight of his body, his automail leg held up for a moment, made a dull clunking sound, and then buckled. He collapsed onto the floor, catching his balance with his hands before his nose impacted the ground. But even the ground was covered in sand. _Great._ He was getting really sick of sand.

Edward massaged the automail ports and dug around a bit in the interior of the leg. He was pleased to find it damaged but not gutted, so he’d be able to stand as long as he heavily leaned on his real leg.

Despite his leg being somewhat intact, Winry was still going to kill him. So, if he ever got out of this mess, he had that to anticipate. She’d throw her hands on her hips and frown, her pink lips narrowing, before launching into her tirade. He felt a pang of sadness and found himself, strangely enough, looking forward to the whole unpleasant affair. 

More out of boredom than any hope of escape, Edward crawled around his prison, which was larger than he’d expected. Even standing, he wasn’t tall enough to reach the ceiling (due to the high ceiling- _NOT_ because he was short), and he was just determining its length from side to side when his hand reached out and found a warm obstacle, rather than just sand.

It took just two pokes to determine that it was another person. He leaned into the body and was pleased to hear quiet breathing.

Although he already suspected who this person was, he confirmed it by touching her hair, which was pulled back into a tight bun.

Ariyn Fitzgerald.

Ariyn Fitzgerald was here.

Although she wasn’t exactly popular in Ishval, it’s not like Edward wanted something bad to happen to her. She was frustrating and obnoxious, but the only reason she was in this mess was because of him. Because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and now she was paying the price.

Or at least she would be, once she woke up.

Even though Edward wanted to nudge her awake to plan an escape or at least commiserate, he doubted Ariyn was going to be any help. In fact, she’d probably make things worse, as she denigrated into a panic and hyperventilated. So despite how much he wanted the company, he let her sleep on, hoping she _was_ sleeping and not unconscious.

He returned his attention back to their prison, but he couldn’t even figure out which wall held the door. Each wall was smooth and thick enough not to gift him with so much as an echo.

In short, they were screwed.

It had been close to dawn when they’d been taken, so someone had to have noticed that they were missing by now, right?

All of those secret nighttime trips to the _Zikkaron_ seemed really stupid now.

 Edward sighed.

He was bored.

Edward had learned a long time ago that kidnapping was the lowest form of flattery. Criminals had often kidnapped Edward, because he’d looked young and was close to powerful people. But by the time rescue parties had been sent to fetch him, Edward had usually escaped his captivity, knocked the criminals unconscious, and left to go find a snack.

That wasn’t going to be the case this time, because without his alchemy, Edward was just a regular guy who’d been slacking off in his sparring practice. Couldn’t use a gun, couldn’t fight with swords, couldn’t do much of anything.

Not that this was a problem in Resembool, where he could enjoy a peaceful retirement in the countryside. But Ishval was completely different. And if he was going to stay here, he had to be more diligent with his sparring, at the very least. Gustav shouldn’t have been able to take him down so easily, and if word got back to Teacher about this… well, he’d take one of Winry’s lectures any day.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn’t notice a low grunting emanating from beside him.

“What-?” Ariyn Fitzgerald choked out, before descending into a coughing fit.

“We’ve been kidnapped by Gustav,” Edward said dully. “I have no idea where we are and when he’s going to come back. If he went through the effort of bringing us here, it’s unlikely that he’d kill us, but who knows?”

Edward shouldn’t have said any of those things, but his frustration had the tendency of slipping out at the nearest target. Luckily, Ariyn was still groggy and didn’t seem to process anything Edward had said.

Rather than responding, Ariyn began feeling her way around in the darkness.

“That’s my leg!”

“Sorry,” she said quietly, not at all like the fiery politician he was accustomed to.

“It’s okay,” he said.  “Are you hurt?”

“My ankle’s twisted, but that’s it. Are you?”

“A bit,” he said, unwilling to elaborate on what a bad situation they were stuck in.

She didn’t say anything else, and he didn’t say anything either.

Kidnapping, Edward Elric decided a few minutes later, should not be an awkward affair. Unpleasant? Definitely. Torturous? Sometimes. But awkward? No.

And this was awkward.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said finally, after Edward’s foot had fallen asleep on three separate occasions. “That I got stuck here, I mean. I’ve always just been unlucky.”

“Er, thanks,” he said, wondering what expressions were flickering across her face, but in the darkness, he knew nothing but her trembling voice and unsteady words. “But it sort of was my fault.”

“It wasn’t.”

“ _Was_.”

“It wasn’t.”

Always had to get the last word in, didn’t she?

Arguing with someone on the brink of hysterics wasn’t particularly satisfying, so Edward let it drop and another long silence passed.

The only warning Edward got that they were about to get a visitor was a distant rhythmic thudding, and then a door Edward hadn’t noticed swung open, allowing a glimmer of light to stretch into the make-shift cell.

Edward jumped to his feet, ready for a fight, uncaring that it was probably hopeless. (He was, after all, standing on sand.) Edward knew only one thing: he needed to get those gloves off of Gustav. Without his gloves, no clap alchemy. A fairer fight.

That was the extent of Edward’s plan, so the moment Gustav stepped foot into Edward’s cell, Edward leaped towards him, ignoring Ariyn’s gasp behind him. At least he had the element of surprise.

But Gustav wasn’t surprised.

And Edward could do very little on his broken automail leg.

Gustav ducked his attack easily, clapped his hands together, and pressed his palms onto the ground. Little hands made of sand grabbed at Edward’s ankles and tugged him back to the floor.

“You’re lucky you’re still useful to me, _Z’hoom_ ,” Gustav said with a cold smile, as though Edward’s escape attempt was so pitiful that it was comical. Which made Edward even angrier.

It was also the first time he’d seen Gustav without his mask on. Though he’d seen Marius Gustav’s picture in his military file weeks ago, that two-dimensional representation of the man was a pale imitation. Where Gustav had once been clean-shaven, this man had a light fuzzed beard gnawing at his sharp jawline. Where Gustav had once stared into the military camera with rounded eyes, this man’s gaze twinkled with a maniacal gleam that reminded Edward of Kimblee.

“Where are we, anyway?” Edward asked, pseudo-casually, smirk firmly in place.

“The Old City of Kedesh,” Gustav said with a sneer. “The wine cellar of an old home, I presume.”

“What do you want with us?” Ariyn asked, voice shaking.

“Don’t worry, little politician,” he said, his stance losing some of its animosity. “We can work together. There’s no need for you to come to any harm.”

The open cellar door was tantalizing, but Gustav’s sand still held Edward in place.

“W-what do you need me to do?” Ariyn asked. With the cellar illuminated, Edward could see that Ariyn had slightly understated her own injuries. Dried blood matted on her shoulder and forehead, and the jumbled pile of her limbs wouldn’t be possible unless something was broken.

“You see, Ariyn, I am on a noble quest to right the wrongs of the Amestrian military failure of years past,” Gustav began, as he started to pace the length of the cellar. “That Ishvalans still taint this earth is a blight on our wondrous country’s history. We failed in our military objective, but I’m going to reverse our failure. And I can’t do it without you.”

“Me?” Ariyn squeaked.

“Yes, with your help, both of our lives are going to get much easier,” he said, leaning close to her, his eyes just inches from hers. The corner of his lips turned upward, like a twisted attempt at a smile.

But Ariyn didn’t back down. Instead she took a deep breath and raised her eyebrow, a light smile etched on her face. How many times had he stared down this exact expression back at the negotiation table in Abra’s inn? All of her visible fear had dissipated, and Edward could almost imagine that she’d chosen to stay in this cellar of her own volition, as though it were her domain. That strands of hair spiraled out of her bun or that blood was smeared across her face seemed to be only cursory details now, as she regained complete control over her aura.  

“What do you need me to do, Gustav?” she asked.

“You’re going to help me re-ignite the Ishvalan Civil War, so we can finally purge all of the filthy desert rats from this earth.”

“You can’t do that!” Edward shouted.

“Shut up, _Ishvalan,_ ” Gustav spat, before turning back to Ariyn. “It wouldn’t be so hard, and I should think I’ll make it good for you too.”

“And how would you do such a thing?” Ariyn asked, pursing her lips.

“It would be easy.”

“But how?” she persisted.

“I’ll admit, Mustang did put a slight hiccup into my plans,” Gustav said, before spitting back over his shoulder and muttering, “Mustang.”

“Huh?”

“Death causes action, does it not, Ariyn?” he asked, a shiny droplet of phlegm still hanging from the corner of his mouth. “A death of a child started the war last time. I obviously tried to imitate it, but no matter, I think that such an important occasion deserves a bigger catalyst!”

Edward remained quiet, despite his urge to argue. He honestly didn’t know if Ariyn was buying into his craziness or not, but at least she was coaxing out his details.

Not even coaxing, really. Gustav had spent the last few months alone in the Kedeshian ruins. At this point, he would probably talk to a lamp.

“Everything you’ve done has been to kick-start another war, hasn’t it?” Ariyn said slowly. “The chaos and the attacks would bring Amestrian soldiers to Kedesh and-”

“And giving them a perfect opportunity to ‘accidentally’ shoot the children was no accident either,” Gustav said. “Please, Ariyn, give me some credit. I’m no amateur.”

Edward couldn’t hold his tongue any longer, “You-you monster. You wanted the soldiers to fire on the kids? That’s… sick. You’re sick in the head!”

Somehow this was worse than the mechanizations that led up to the Ishvalan War. This wasn’t orchestrated by the homunculi; Gustav was completely human. And he was trying to destroy an entire group of people who’d already survived hell on earth.

“I’m no monster,” Gustav said with a smile. “I’m merely Amestrian. Don’t think I haven’t heard the hateful whispers around this pathetic city about the _evil_ Amestrians, driven by greed and animalistic urges.”

“Being Amestrian doesn’t mean being a _monster,”_ Edward said, unsure why he was still arguing with this lunatic. But it felt wrong not to defend Amestrians.    

“I’m no monster, _Z’hoom,”_ he said. “I merely want to finish the military objective, and I’m sure Ariyn here would appreciate not having to worry about this backward country.”

“I’m listening,” Ariyn said, raising an eyebrow again. “You said something about a bigger catalyst?”

“Yes!” Gustav shouted, clapping his hands together. “Why stop with a few school children? That’s way too small a scale. When the whole group comes to rescue the Elric boy, I’ll destroy them. You will be the only survivor, and you’ll return to Parliament and report how a hateful Ishvalan was responsible. Easy as pie. They’ll be so distraught they’ll order up an army to march right back into Ishval and finish the extermination themselves.”

“Hm,” Ariyn said, still blank-faced. “That’s well-thought out. And how will you kill this rescue party?”

“Just a building explosion. Lots of dynamite plus some alchemy, it’ll be easy,” Gustav said.

Ariyn nodded slowly, and Gustav’s face lit up.

“So, Ariyn, what do you think- wait, no, take some time to mull it over,” Gustav said. “Think very carefully about your decision.” Gustav twisted towards Edward. “So, _Z’hoom,_ you have some of the answers you seek. Now you’re going to answer my questions. Equivalent exchange.”

“I’m not going to answer anything,” Edward said, tugging on his sand restraints. For being made of sand, they were solid enough that no amount of pressure Edward could exert did any damage.

“Your stubbornness precedes you, Fullmetal Alchemist. Don’t worry. I won’t ask anything too challenging.”

Edward got the feeling that this was going to be a violent interrogation, but all Gustav did was sit down just out of lunging distance.

“You became a state alchemist at the age of twelve, yes?”

Edward didn’t know if Gustav was just easing him in, but everyone already knew that. There couldn’t be any harm in agreeing.

“Yes.”

“Which put you at the rank of a major in the Amestrian military, yes?”

“Yes,” Edward said.

“So there were men twice your age that had to salute and defer to you?” Gustav asked, leering down at Edward.

“I suppose so.”

“Do you think that’s fair?” Gustav asked conversationally. “Not even a teenager and you were a major?”

“I don’t know,” Edward said. “It wasn’t what I wanted. I never cared about the rank. I just wanted to help my brother.”

“Yes, yes, this infamous Elric loyalty I’ve heard so much about,” Gustav said with a smile, but his gaze lowered to his fidgeting hands.  

“But you’re an alchemist too? You could’ve been a major,” Edward said.

“Not when I was in the military,” Gustav said. “No, I was merely a captain and then Mustang paraded in with the other state alchemists, all majors, and I had to take orders from these green little nobodies who only knew how to draw circles!”

Spit flew from his lips, and then he took a deep breath and settled down.

“So you dislike alchemists and then you… became one?” Edward asked.

“It was the only way to get my revenge,” Gustav said. “Now… no more avoiding my questions. Answer them or else.”

“You already said you’re going to kill me, right? So why should I say anything?” Edward asked. It wasn’t like he was even torturing him or anything. It was a rather pleasant questioning, as far as these things went.

“True,” Gustav said, nodding. “At least give me something on a shared enemy, then? Roy Mustang. What is the range of his fire alchemy?”

Edward kept his lips sealed.

“I’ve seen it in action before. Slaughtering dozens of men at a time, all with the snap of his fingers. He’d destroy buildings at a time, and as they crumbled, the cries of the Ishvalans inside made me feel alive! You must want him dead as much as I do, Elric. I have an approximate estimate, but what are the exact limitations of his alchemy?”

Edward said nothing.

“How about an even easier question then, _Z’hoom_? What is the current condition of Mustang? It can’t be good since he was shot by his own men!” The prospect made him gleeful, a genuine smile stretched across his face. “He’ll live, I suppose, but he’s probably pretty vulnerable right now.”

“Don’t!” Edward said, unwillingly breaking his self-enforced silence. “Haven’t you already done enough?”

“With Mustang out of the picture, there’ll be nothing stopping me, and everything _does_ become easier if he suffers an unfortunate fate,” Gustav said slowly, as if he was still figuring out his plans as he went. “Tell me then: what is Mustang’s one weakness?”

“I’m not going to tell you anything!”

“Roy Mustang destroyed your home and your country! At the very least, you could be assured that he wouldn’t ever do it again. Win-win. What is Mustang’s one weakness?”

Gustav waited a full minute for a response, but Ariyn’s shallow breaths were the only break in the silence.

“Come on, Elric, that’s easy,” Gustav said, pushing himself back to his feet with a grunt. “Everyone knows that Mustang’s weakness is that lieutenant of his. Or is she a captain now?” Gustav shook his head. “Regardless, the sniper is his weakness. Even the lowliest soldier knows that, so if you won’t even tell me that much, what use are you to me?”

“No use at all!” Edward shouted. “You might as well kill me now, you crazy old fossil!”

“But I don’t want to kill you,” Gustav said. “You’re very important bait. You’ll die, but only at the perfect moment. Your Ishvalan kind has contaminated this country long enough.”

“You can’t-” Edward began.

“Can’t I? I’ve been traversing Kedesh without anyone who can stop me for weeks!” he said. “With Mustang out of the picture, well, it’ll be child’s play. Everyone will come search for you, and thanks to my evidence, they’ll come to this very section of the Old City. They’ll come in and boom. No more Ishvalan Accords. Everyone will die, and this stain will finally be put behind us.”

Edward felt a chill run down his back and he stared at Gustav unblinkingly.

_No._

“That won’t happen!” Edward shouted, struggling against the sand restraints again. He squirmed and pushed, his fists clenched, but he was trapped.

“Who’s going to stop me?” Gustav asked with a laugh. His amusement at Edward’s failure was infuriating. More than anything else, Edward wanted to punch Gustav so hard he’d forget his own name. “You? You can’t even land a punch on me. You’re pathetically easy to keep here.”

“If you hurt them, I will kill you!”

“I’d like to see you try, little _Z’hoom_ ,” he said, and then he smiled towards Ariyn. “I’ll be back soon for your answer. Think carefully.” With that, he left, closing the door behind him, plunging Edward and Ariyn into darkness once more. The sand restraints disintegrated back into sand, and Edward wanted to scream.

So he did. He punched the wall and screamed as loud as he could. It’s not that he thought Gustav could hear him. Honestly, the only thing he accomplished was scaring Ariyn, but at least it made Edward feel better. Mostly. Not really. Now he just had a sore fist.

He collapsed back onto the sand, slightly less frustrated, but feeling more hopeless than he’d felt in a long time.  

“Um,” Ariyn Fitzgerald said after his tantrum had finished. “Edward?”

“Yeah?”

It was strange talking to her while stuck in the darkness, because there weren’t any facial cues. It reminded him a bit of when Al was trapped in the suit of armor, and he had to listen to the inflections of his voice for his emotions.

“Gustav… he said something before and I was just wondering…” She paused. “You’re not… are you…”

“Yeah?”

“Are you Ishvalan?” Her voice was timid and shaky.

Because, _of course_. She didn’t know. She was the only person who hadn’t known, because she was the only person not in the _Zikkaron_ that day, and obviously no one had told her. It had been easier then, but now…  

“Yes,” he said. “Half actually. My mom was Ishvalan.” The extra details slipped out, maybe because he couldn’t see her face.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“I don’t spread it around,” he said, and they plunged back into awkward silence.

“So your brother then-?”

“Yeah.”

Weren’t politicians supposed to be good at talking? This was just uncomfortable.

“Ishvalan,” she said. “Wow, that’s… _something_.”

“Not really,” he said, unable to keep the bite from his words. “Just how I was born. Just because I’m part-Ishvalan doesn’t mean I’m any different than anyone else or different than I was before. Ishvalans might seem foreign and threatening to you, Representative, but we’re not like that at all. We have lost many things, but we have the audacity to continue to hope and try to better our lives, and that’s all we want out of these stupid Accords anyway, but it’s turned into this whole difficult thing. It should never have been so complicated!”

Edward took a deep breath, feeling moderately better. He’d never been good at the political doublespeak that Mustang excelled at. Edward preferred to speak his mind and then let things come as they did.

“It must have been hard,” she said quietly.

“Yes and no,” Edward said with a sigh. “Ishval was my home. I’m Ishvalan, but I’m not ashamed of that.”

“Ishval doesn’t hold the same beauty in my eyes,” she said. “Ishval took my whole world.”

Edward didn’t say anything.

“It probably seems silly to you,” she continued. “You’ve lost so much, but… after both of my sons returned home from Ishval in coffins, things were… different.” Edward could hear that she was choking up, but he didn’t know what to do.  

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said.

“Compared to you, it’s nothing,” she said between sniffles.

“Pain can’t be compared,” Edward said with a sigh. “It doesn’t work that way. Just because someone has it worse than you do doesn’t mean you aren’t in a lot of pain. My Granny- not my real one but she basically adopted Al and I- she lost her only son and her daughter-in-law in the War. She… wasn’t ever the same again. Sure, there were people who had it worse than her. She had a roof over her head and enough food and a granddaughter and a career, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t hurting.”

It was easy to talk to someone in the dark, Edward realized suddenly. He couldn’t see her expressions or her judgment. It was almost like he was talking to himself.

“That’s why the Ishvalan Accords mean so much to us,” he continued. “The more hatred there is, the more the cycle of pain continues. It’ll never end. There shouldn’t be people like your or my Granny, having to bury their children.”

Ariyn Fitzgerald had stopped audibly crying, but when she began speaking again, it took her a few tries to get the words out.

“I didn’t want Amestris to take the blame for the Ishvalan War,” she said. “It meant that my sons died in vain.” She sniffled again. “They were such nice boys. Kind to a fault, would save a kitten from a tree on the way to their own wedding. They weren’t ever supposed to be soldiers, but their friends enlisted and my eldest followed, and of course, his younger brother had to join too.”

“We’re trying to make sure that’ll never happen again,” Edward said.

“You’re right.”

A more comfortable silence reigned, interrupted by the occasional hiccup.

“But you’ve been helping the Accords recently,” Edward said. He wasn’t a politician, and he didn’t have any maneuvering skills. Just blunt force, a lot of time in the darkness, and some unanswered questions.

“I have.”

“Because of the economics?”

“My duty is to my region and the people I represent,” she said, her voice slipping back into a smooth delivery, like she’d repeated it verbatim many times.  

Edward said nothing, thinking over what a horrible life a politician must lead, always striving for credit yet willing to put nothing on the line.

“You wanted the credit, didn’t you?”

She laughed. It was a sad laugh -and was punctuated by a sob- but it was a laugh nevertheless.

“You could say that,” she said. “If it benefits my people and I help push it through, then it looks good on me.”

“Wait. Is that why you’ve been talking with the soldiers? You want them to say it was your efforts that got everything passed?”

“Very good,” she said. “You’re more observant than I thought. More than Mustang.”

“Mustang notices a lot more than he lets on,” Edward said, strangely feeling the need to defend the Colonel Bastard. Sorry. _General Bastard_.

“He probably does,” she agreed.

“He just wants it to pass. I don’t know if he cares about the credit,” Edward said.

“You know, a few months ago I wouldn’t have believed you, but now, I think maybe you’re right,” she said.

“I always am,” Edward said matter-of-factly.

A few minutes passed, and his mind wandered far from the dusty cellar back to home. One of his homes, anyway. Back in Resembool with Granny and Den and Winry, a fresh-baked apple pie cooling on the countertop. Alphonse was with him, and they were trying to practice their sparring, but Den kept barking and jumping between them.

“Edward?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know what to say when Gustav comes back.” Her voice was steady, but her fears were betrayed by the rhythmic tapping of her hand against the sand.

“What do you want to do?”

Ariyn paused. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I want to tell him to suck it,” she said, a smile audible in her words.

“But-”

“But what?” she asked. “You think that I _want_ another war? You think I _want_ Ishval to be destroyed again?” She tutted. “You think so little of me.”

“But you’re so…” Edward began.

“So what? Hateful? Stubborn? Obstructionist?”

“I was going to say slick,” Edward said. “But those work too.”

“Hm.”  

“I think you should do it,” Edward said. “Tell him you’ll help him. Then at least somebody will survive this.”

Ariyn harrumphed, “What’s my life worth?”

“Every life is worth something.”

“Even Gustav’s?”

Edward sighed, “Yeah, even his. I’ve learned that mercy can have a large price, but it’s my choice to pay it.” He didn’t want to talk about Kimblee or his injuries from the North, but he found his hand hovering over his scars anyway.

“You’re very wise, Edward,” she said.

“Even if I am Ishvalan?”

Ariyn didn’t respond for a few minutes, and Edward found his mind wandering back towards the sweet scent of fresh apple pie.

_Seriously, he was getting hungry._

“It wasn’t personal,” she said finally.

“But wasn’t it?”

Silence fell again, and Ariyn didn’t bother to argue with him. Time passed slowly in the darkness, and before he knew it, footsteps pounded outside the cellar, and then Gustav swung open the door again.

“Howdy,” Edward said, sending him a one-fingered salute, though not bothering to attack this time.

“Look,” Gustav said snidely. “It can learn.”

Edward felt his heckles rise but tried to keep calm.

“Dear, Ariyn,” Gustav said, leaning casually against the far wall. He had the relaxed arrogance of someone in complete control. And it was driving Edward batty. “What do you have to say to my offer?”

“Well, Gustav,” Ariyn began slowly, a delicate smile on her lips. “I think you can take your offer and shove it.” Ariyn tilted her head up towards Gustav, and despite her injuries and blood stains, she commanded the room. “I’m never going to help you start another war, and if these deaths are your only plan, you severely overestimate your chances.”

What a stupid thing to do. And yet, Edward felt strangely impressed with Ariyn. Gustav recoiled at her words, before relaxing back into his smirk.

“Very well. You’ll die with the _Z’hoom,”_ he said. “Disappointing, but not insurmountable.”

Gustav marched forward and for a moment, Edward thought that he was going to hurt one of them, but instead, he just grabbed onto Ariyn’s shoulders.

“Oh, what I would do to you if I could,” he said, his eyes hesitating over her neck. “But I want your bodies to be perfectly IDed as dying in an explosion, so… I’ll just have to get my satisfaction from your deaths.”

He let go of Ariyn, who fell down to the sand with a thud, and sneered towards Edward.

“This is the end for you. For both of you,” he said. “Pray to your god now, and I’ll set up my dynamite. Let’s see whose god is mightier.”

With that, he strode from the room, slamming the door behind him and plunging them into darkness once more.

“What’d you do that for? You could’ve lived!” Edward said, as soon as the footsteps faded away.

“What? I thought you’d be happy, because I saw the light and goodness or whatever.”

“So you did it to impress me?”

“Don’t throw my words back in my face,” Ariyn said. “That’s my job.” Ariyn paused. “No, I did it, because I wasn’t going to help him. There won’t be another war, not while I have any power anyway.”

The anger rushed out of Edward, even if he wished she’d have at least saved herself.

“Well, thanks,” Edward said quietly.

“It’s hardly much,” she said, her characteristic snippiness returning. “It doesn’t matter in the scheme of things.”

“It matters to me,” he said. “That has to count for something.”

“Hm.”

More silence. But it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. Just the two of them trapped within their own thoughts in their shared prison.

“Edward?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to live through this, won’t we?”

“Yes,” he said, knowing it could be a lie. “We will.”

Edward laid his head down onto the sand and stared blankly up to the ceiling.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

On one hand, he wanted to be rescued. He needed to survive. There was no way that he had survived the Promised Day and the Gate and the Ishvalan War just to die here.

But at the same time, he hoped that no one would find them. Gustav was laying a trap that would destroy everyone inside, and Edward couldn’t be responsible for the deaths of the people he loved. Even if it meant his own death.

If they stayed away as far as possible, they wouldn’t get hurt, and Edward would gladly lay down his life to protect them.

But it wasn’t in his control.

 When Winry had complained after the Promised Day about how useless she’d felt when she’d been used as a hostage, Edward had sympathized, but he couldn’t understand what it was like. But now he did. His stomach twisted, and he glanced over to where Ariyn Fitzgerald was, even if he couldn’t see her in the darkness. Would he condemn her to death, just to save the others?

But again, it wasn’t in his control. Edward was sadly irrelevant in this scheme, only bait for the more important players.

“Edward?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you believe in karma?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think that’s how the universe works.”

“I don’t either,” she said slowly. “Though it should work that way, shouldn’t it?”

Edward was about to argue back, at least to stave off boredom, when there was a nearby thud.

“Representative?” he asked, feeling his way through the darkness. His hand hit her body, and he felt her shallow breaths. “Representative?”

“’m okay,” she muttered, but her forehead burned to the touch.

For a split second, he prayed that they would soon be found, and after he realized what he’d done, he couldn’t find the heart to take it back. He wanted to be found. He wanted to see a new Ishval dawn.

He wanted to live, but what would the cost be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And things just keep getting worse, don’t they? 
> 
> Next week, you’ll get the POV of Scar/Heridas! So look forward to that… See you then!


	15. Grand Cleric Heridas/Scar I

The Fullmetal Alchemist (and Ariyn Fitzgerald) were in the hands of Marius Gustav. If it wasn’t Heridas’ responsibility to rescue them, he’d find it almost comical how often that kid got himself into trouble.

But it was, and Heridas wanted to groan.

The delegation had first suspected innocuous reasons for Edward’s absence, so it wasn’t until they’d discovered a bloodstain in an alleyway close to the inn that they realized that Edward was in peril.

Which was around the same time that they’d realized that Ariyn Fitzgerald was missing as well, and it didn’t take long to put the pieces together.

This was very bad.

When Mustang heard what had happened, he tried to push himself out of bed. Luckily, Captain Hawkeye was nearby, so she could hold him down until he stopped squirming and the doctor could return to properly lecture him on the perils of excessive movement at this stage of his recovery. Mustang cowering under the doctor’s and Hawkeye’s glares had been satisfying for Heridas. But even _he_ had to admit that it would’ve been helpful to have Mustang mobile.

Fortunately for Heridas, babysitting Mustang fell to Jean Havoc, who didn’t have the bodily capability to spend all day on his feet searching under the merciless Ishvalan sun. It wasn’t so much that Mustang needed the supervision, given his impressive flame alchemy, but Havoc’s presence would incentivize Mustang to stay in bed (so Havoc wouldn’t have to damage his legs to chase him down). And it kept Havoc feeling useful, though he probably already suspected that his assignment was just a distraction.

Which left most everyone else available to search for Edward Elric and Representative Fitzgerald in the Kedeshian ruins.

Winry and Alphonse insisted on joining the search as well -for obvious reasons- but they were still civilians. Not to mention they could potentially be Gustav’s next targets.  

Or that they weren’t exactly emotionally stable.

But they refused to remain at the inn, so Major Miles and Captain Hawkeye assigned them to search through Kedesh proper. It was unlikely that Gustav would be keeping Edward and Ariyn there (considering they’d found no evidence of his presence), but at least it got them out of the way. If it was up to Heridas, he wouldn’t have banished them to uselessness, but he did understand Major Miles and Captain Hawkeye’s reasoning.

“This is about gathering intelligence,” Major Miles had announced to the group, before they separated off into their search parties. “Look for Gustav’s location only. Do not engage.”

Would that stop Alphonse from engaging? Heridas doubted it, considering the morose but determined expression that had been glued on Alphonse’s face since he’d discovered his brother missing just past dawn.

Winry and Alphonse headed into the heart of Kedesh, flanked by a handful of soldiers remaining stationed in Kedesh, just in case Gustav moved in on the city while the rest were distracted.  But everyone else combed out into the Old City of Kedesh to seek clues to Gustav’s location.  

“We aren’t even sure Gustav is in the Old City,” Major Miles said quietly, as they passed through the construction sites that bridged the Old City with the new. “We are merely relying on our best guess, which is something I despise.”

“There isn’t anywhere else he could be,” Heridas said. “There’s no civilization in walking distance, so unless he’s teleporting, he has to be in the Old City’s ruins.” Heridas sounded confident to his own ears, but it was more for Miles’ benefit. Although the Old City was their best guess, they hadn’t been able to find Gustav yet. Now that Gustav had kidnapped his targets, wouldn’t it be even more difficult?  

As soon as they arrived into the Old City’s ruins, they split into smaller groups. The Amestrian soldiers, led by Captain Hawkeye, were happily kept separate from any of the Ishvalans. Heridas had always been twitchy around Amestrian soldiers, but after these particular ones nearly caused a disaster, Heridas was particularly unforgiving. That they were even among the search parties was an unfortunate side effect of Amestrian interference, and if Heridas had his way, they wouldn’t even be in Ishval anymore.

Not that he didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. Ariyn Fitzgerald was strategically important, and if something happened to her, he shuddered just imagining what Amestris would do. Despite her unpleasantness, she held a high office in the Parliament, and though Gustav was Amestrian, Heridas doubted that would matter much to the Amestrians, as they rushed to condemn Ishval once again.

But Edward’s safety was much more personal to Heridas. It wasn’t just his Ishvalan heritage, though that had certainly made Heridas see him in a new light; it was Edward’s kindness, which acted as a lens through which he viewed the world. Sure, he put on this act of bravado and cockiness, but after everything he’d been through, Edward was still _good._

It was foolish, perhaps. But noble.

“How does it feel to be on this side of things, Cleric?” Major Miles asked, after the two had separated from the other search parties and strode towards their assigned quadrant of the Old City.

 “I don’t understand,” Heridas said.

“How does it feel? Looking for the Fullmetal Alchemist’s assailant rather than being that assailant?” Major Miles said.

“It feels… unpleasant.”  

“The Elrics weave their way into your heart somehow,” Major Miles said, almost wistfully. “Even General Armstrong was fond of them, and her heart’s made of ice.”

Miles was usually careful with his words, which Heridas had always appreciated. It meant that whenever Miles spoke, his words held meaning and that every word falling from his lips had been considered. For Miles, this was essentially babbling. And nothing made Heridas quite as unnerved as realizing how nervous Miles truly was.

But the chatter bothered Heridas, who surveyed the Kedeshian ruins with a mournful pain, so he stopped responding to Miles’ nervous questions. Miles quickly took the hint and silenced. 

The search for Edward and Ariyn Fitzgerald was time-consuming and exhausting. The devastation of the Old City lent itself to hiding, and every fallen building and pile of debris could lead to an underground tunnel or shelter.  Although certain sections of the Old City were nearly flat, with only speckles of columns and bricks, Heridas and Miles chose a section that was more intact. Although the upper levels of the buildings had mostly collapsed in, many of the ground floors still bore erect walls and various trinkets, the only remnants of the people that had once lived there.

The afternoon was hot, the sky was cloudless, and there was no wind. And, unlike in Kedesh proper, there weren’t even fully-formed buildings to shield them from the brunt of the sun’s vengeance. They were completely exposed, at the mercy of a spiteful sun.

“What do you think Gustav wants with Edward? Or the Representative?” Miles asked, as they began dividing up the neighboring area between themselves. Throughout the day, they’d alternated between searching together and dividing up the rows of ruins to search separately. Neither way was faster than the other, and it hadn’t mattered much to Heridas.

“I’m not sure,” Heridas said, jumping over a collapsed wall, taking great care not to damage the structural integrity of the building. “Whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

“Even if Ariyn Fitzgerald survives this, should she be unwilling to work further on the Ishvalan Accords, we might already be dead in the water.” Miles shook his head and rummaged through a small pile of loose stones, before they both moved on.  

When they split up again, Heridas conducted his search mechanically, as his mind debated whether he was angrier at Edward, for getting himself into this predicament, or Gustav, who’d set all of these wheels into motion.

But despite his current displeasure at Edward Elric’s immaturity, (Edward should have never left the inn last night) Edward was still a child and would act like one occasionally. (Most adults did too, but at least Edward had his biological age as an excuse.)

But there was a reason that Heridas had had no qualms about killing Edward during their first battle, even if he had been a child.

During the War, the turnover rate of soldiers had been high, especially towards the end, with far more of them returning home in body bags (if they were even lucky enough to find a body). With the depletion of able-bodied men of serving age, the standard of acceptance for soldiers dramatically plummeted. Middle-aged men, children, and even some women dressed up as men. (This was never a formal practice of the Ishvalan military, but they’d also never condoned it either.) They were all just people fighting for their right to live in their ancestral home and to survive until tomorrow’s dawn.

Edward had been twelve when he’d become a State Alchemist. Heridas had seen kids just as young be handed a gun and get pointed at the oncoming enemy. Getting thrown into the military as a child was a tragedy, but with Heridas’ mind focused on revenge, Edward’s age wouldn’t have stopped him.

Heridas realized the sun had nearly set, so as soon as it became too dark, he reconvened with Miles.

“It’s no use trying to search through the night,” Miles said. “We’ll have to return tomorrow morning first thing.”

“It may be too late by then, Miles,” Heridas said, to which Miles nodded, but there was nothing either of them could do.

They returned to the inn in poor spirits, which dropped even further when they saw that Alphonse and Winry had already returned just as unsuccessfully. Alphonse was refusing to eat, and Winry wasn’t speaking to anyone but Al. Their eyes were sunken, as they huddled into each other, seemingly fragile and defeated.

“We’ll find him,” Hawkeye reassured them, but neither responded.

The group spent their evening meal scrutinizing a map of the Kedeshian ruins and drawing in the extent of their searches so far. It was disheartening to be reminded how large Kedesh had once been. Not only did it make finding Edward and Ariyn feel hopeless, but it also was a grim reminder of how far Ishval had fallen. It was easy to forget, while walking around its humble reincarnation, that Kedesh had once been a city full of grandeur, that it had been one of the most advanced, developed cities in Ishval, a pinnacle of Ishvalan architecture and urban life.

“Let us join you tomorrow,” Alphonse said, as they divided up the landscape again. “They’re definitely not around here, so at least let us do something.” His tone was pleading, but there was a determination there that had been absent earlier. A refusal to give up, and Heridas was pleased to see the family resemblance.

Captain Hawkeye hesitated for a moment, before nodding.  

“No engaging Gustav if you find him,” she said firmly, but Alphonse flashed his first smile of the day.

They spent a few more minutes creating a few potential plans, should they find Gustav, though Heridas’ plan was more just charging in and dealing with the consequences later. That was generally frowned on in the military, though the plans that they came up with weren’t much more elaborate.

Finally, after the gathering dispersed, Havoc pulled Hawkeye aside, trying to convince her that he’d be more useful in Kedesh than as Mustang’s handmaiden. But she wouldn’t hear of it, sending him to guard Mustang again in the morning. Havoc grumbled, but he’d listen to Hawkeye. She inspired that in people.

After Havoc trudged up the stairs, Hawkeye found Heridas’ eyes. He hadn’t been eavesdropping, per se, but he had been standing in the corner, completely silent and still, so he could listen in on their conversation. But not eavesdropping.

“At least we have a plan,” Heridas said, trying for optimistic, but that just wasn’t who he was, so it came out forced.

“Nothing is making sense,” Hawkeye said, marching towards Heridas. In the shadows, she was the perfect soldier. Her posture was straight, her hands steady, and yet, when she stepped into the light, Heridas could see the cracks in the facade. Her bloodshot eyes and the slightest quiver in her knees. She played a dangerous game, as she balanced on the edge of sanity. The only reason he could recognize it was because he’d danced on the precipice of madness before too.

“It’ll all straighten out,” Heridas said. “We are not defeated yet.” He’d been aiming for optimism, but again, it came out stilted. He remembered saying something equally hopeful to his fellow warrior monks during the War, back when it felt like they might have had a fighting chance. In hindsight, though, the Ishvalan defeat was a foregone conclusion.

“He’s just a kid,” Hawkeye said, clearly not hung up on Ariyn Fitzgerald’s kidnapping. “He doesn’t belong mixed up in this. He never has.”

“Maybe he was just a kid once,” Heridas said. “But he’s grown up. He’s older than he used to be, and if he’s here, it’s of his own volition.”

“Perhaps.”

On principle, Heridas never spoke of the Ishvalan genocide with the Amestrians, especially with the very soldiers who had completed Order 3066. But he suddenly needed to break his self-enforced rule, because he refused to wallow in his bitter thoughts alone.

“You’ve killed children before,” he said.

He didn’t regret saying it, finding some satisfaction with the pain in her eyes and the visible wince that shook her whole body. Captain Hawkeye was barely keeping it together- from Mustang’s injuries to Edward’s kidnapping- but he had to push her because he was an asshole. It was a snide comment from another time, another man. He’d been like Edward once. Forceful, stubborn, and ready to throw out his opinion with the slightest provocation.

_Some of it subsides with age, and some of it leeches out at the worst possible moments._

“I have,” Hawkeye agreed. She offered no defense for herself, and it eased Heridas’ misplaced anger.

“Innocents, especially children, end up in the crossfires far more often than any civilized society should allow,” he said. “But Edward isn’t an innocent, not anymore.” 

“Then what?” Hawkeye asked, her eyes suddenly flashing. “You think that Edward deserved what he got? That because Edward isn’t an innocent, his own fate isn’t as lamentable as all of the innocents lost in the war? As though it’s Edward’s fault that, by the time he was twelve, he had seen far more than any child should have!”

It was typical. Accuse Hawkeye of being a child-murderer and she’d accept it without a protest, but encroach on Edward Elric and she pounced. It was sometimes nice to have a reminder that Hawkeye was just as human as he was.

“No,” Heridas said, easing himself onto the nearest barstool and rubbing at his aching feet through his sandals.  “I’m not saying that at all. Edward Elric is a good kid.”

“He always has been,” Hawkeye said, her anger receding quickly. “He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve any of this. We _will_ find him.” She lowered her voice and looked away. “We have to.”

“If something did happen to Edward,” Heridas said slowly. “It’s- it’s not your fault.” The words felt awkward and heavy, but he wanted her to hear them.

“Gustav is an ex-Amestrian soldier, so he’s a devil of our own creation,” Hawkeye said, sliding down into the seat next to him with a sigh. “His hatred wasn’t born. It was made. That’s how we were trained. To see the enemy- to see Ishvalans- as only monsters. They thought that it would help us pull the trigger.” Her gaze hardened as she spoke, but she was seemingly calm, assuming he ignored her tight grip on the stool, her own protruding knuckles betraying her tension.

“But you didn’t agree,” Heridas prompted. “You never thought that way. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

“I did,” she said. “It would be a disservice to my targets’ memories to do any less.”

Heridas didn’t know how to phrase his complicated thoughts politely, so bluntness would have to do.

“Sometimes I see flashes of who you were before you joined the military,” he said, unable to watch Hawkeye as he spoke, so his eyes found a row of untouched liquor bottles lining the wall. Some of them were replications of old Ishvalan recipes, and some bore faded labels he recognized. Perhaps they’d survived the war that had taken so many of his kin and so much of his culture.

“You had ideals and compassion once. You had morals. I don’t know how your military did it, but somehow, they broke you. And I think you’re still picking up the pieces, because there’s a part of you that’s still in shock over what you’ve done in the name of Amestris.”

“I am the same person as I was then,” she said, blatant loathing coloring her tone. “It’s frightening what a person can do when they are properly incentivized. I learned that the hard way. As did you.” She nodded towards him, and he couldn’t hide his wry smile. There had been a time when such a comparison would have angered him.

Before either could break the silence, Breda rushed in, ranting on and on about how Havoc wouldn’t shut up about his own uselessness. It wasn’t an urgent issue, but Hawkeye left to reconvene with Havoc immediately. But before she disappeared up the staircase, she spun back for a moment. Her face was blank, but it seemed like she was urging him to understand something.

Then the moment passed, and she left to pacify Havoc’s insecurities.

Edward Elric had spent years among these Amestrians who had slaughtered _their_ people, and no matter how Edward justified it, Heridas couldn’t imagine being able to do the same.

But Edward was right about one thing: it was exhausting to dwell in hatred. Heridas had at least learned that much in his life as Scar.

He sat alone in the dark lounge for a few more minutes, before retiring back to his room. He kneeled in prayer, as he did every night, murmuring a combination of set prayers and personal expressions. The former helped guide his thanks towards Ishvala, as his ancestors had done for hundreds of years, and the latter was just his own personal meditations, neither eloquent nor poetic. Just guttural emotions and honesty. Just him and Ishvala.

He prayed for Edward Elric’s return, wondering for the umpteenth time how that kid had wormed his way into his heart. And then, out of necessity, he prayed for the safe return of Ariyn Fitzgerald, because she was their best hope at reaching a legal state of peace. To Heridas, her return was important but not personal.

But Edward’s return _was_ personal. The former Fullmetal Alchemist was immature, impulsive, and annoying, but he was still… Edward. A child of Ishval who’d emerged from the ashes of the War with both bitterness and longing. Edward had been sure that there wasn’t a place left for him in Ishval, and yet, he’d found one, carved of his own generosity and spirit. His journey couldn’t be over now; it was only just beginning.

But more than anything else, the person who wouldn’t fade from Heridas’ thoughts was Alphonse.

Heridas had never seen him like that before.  

Hopeless.

Devastated.

Broken.

And Heridas couldn’t push away the memory of Alphonse’s unfocussed eyes drooping downward, as his shoulders hunched, as though it required all of his energy to stay upright.

It scared Heridas, because he’d seen it before.

In the mirror.

The face of a man who’d lost everything, with nothing to live for but his own survival. If something happened to Edward, he didn’t know what Alphonse would do. Perhaps Heridas was projecting, but there was only one person in the world who could have stopped him from becoming Scar.

And that was his brother.

Siblings had a special connection that was untainted by disagreements and differences. Heridas had certainly had many disagreements with his own brother over the years, but they’d always shared a close bond, bound by honesty and friendship.

_You couldn’t become someone like Scar when you had someone to live for._

Perhaps Gustav was the same. Perhaps Gustav also had no one to live for, which allowed him to drown in his own hatred. But Heridas didn’t care much for Gustav’s reasoning, and he would grant no sympathy to the man who’d wrought such destruction onto his people and carried such loathing in his heart.

But the fearful part of his mind whispered to Heridas before he fell asleep that night.

_You were just like Gustav, Scar. And you were allowed a chance at redemption, but despite your own second chance, you refuse to grant them to others, because you are not a forgiving man. If there were more men like you, you’d have been killed a long time ago. By someone like Winry Rockbell or Edward Elric or any one of the dozens of spouses, children, or friends affected by your string of murders._

_Hypocrite._

_Hypocrite._

_Hypocrite._

Heridas didn’t sleep well that night.

As soon as dawn broke, the search party returned to the ruins, this time accompanied by Alphonse and Winry. Although the day was young, no one appeared sluggish. This was their second day of searching, and with every passing moment, the chance that Edward and Ariyn Fitzgerald were still alive diminished. It was the thought that no one dared to voice, but Heridas could see it in the vigor behind their eyes.

Like yesterday, Heridas searched with Miles, but as the day stretched on, even their most basic conversations had ceased. It wasn’t until they’d nearly finished their second sector of the day and the sun was at its highest point in the sky that they heard their first piece of good news in ages.

There was a shout from the distance, and Heridas saw Breda running toward them.

“We’ve- we’ve found them!” Breda yelled, pointing back at the direction he’d come from, further into the ruins. Heridas and Miles wasted no time and followed Breda’s directions toward the rendezvous point two streets over from the reported location of Gustav, while Breda continued alerting the other search parties of the new developments.

They found the group easily, not far from where Heridas and Miles had been searching. Not all of the search parties had been found, but they’d still gathered about thirty men, all ready to bring Gustav down. Heridas didn’t recognize any of the soldiers, but he was pleased to notice that Winry and Alphonse hadn’t been found yet.

Gustav wasn’t getting away this time. Not while Heridas had breath in him.

“Our suspected location is two streets east,” Hawkeye said. “We found recent garbage leading us right toward it. The roof’s blown out, but the first and second floors seem to be relatively stable and shielded with walls. No sign of Gustav yet, but stay alert. He’s extremely dangerous.”  

“Be as careful as possible,” Major Miles seconded. “He’s proven to be resourceful in the past.”

“Let’s use Plan Jackel,” Hawkeye said, and with Miles’ nod, it was passed to the gathered soldiers.

A few soldiers had already been sent out to gather intelligence on the suspected location of Edward and Ariyn. Once they returned and reported their findings, the entire force would storm the location. The exact positioning of the soldiers had been thoroughly debated, but Heridas hadn’t paid any attention to anything but his own job. He’d be part of the main force, which suited his alchemic abilities best anyway.

He hadn’t used alchemy since the Promised Day, but he doubted it was something that he could forget. Although he’d toyed with retiring his alchemy for good once he’d returned to Ishval, Heridas hadn’t found the inner strength to make that pledge yet. The alchemy notes of his brother had saved Amestris, so his abilities didn’t feel like a slight against Ishvala anymore. Not when he could use them for good today, to save lives instead of steal them.

The soldiers soon returned from their reconnaissance assignment and reported their findings succinctly.  

“No sign of Gustav, sir! But there was a sleeping bag visible from the window. From our vantage point, we couldn’t see any sign of the prisoners, but the most defensible location on that plot would be underground, sir!” They saluted as one, and Heridas felt nauseated at the hero worship in their eyes reflected at Hawkeye.

“Good, the plan doesn’t change,” she said. And one of the soldiers stepped forward and handed her a carrying case with bronze latches that glistened under the Ishvalan sun. “Cleric Heridas, I want you to lead the main force. Major Miles, enter from the back.” She gestured to the case. “I’ll be where I can see best.”

The Hawk’s eye had always been a better sniper than a ground soldier.

“Everyone clear on their orders?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Wait!” a boyish voice cried out.

Oh no.

Alphonse Elric fumbled down the alleyway at full speed, followed by a wheezing Winry.  

“Slow down,” Winry forced out. “You shouldn’t be-” But as she noticed the gathered soldiers, she quieted and matched Alphonse’s pace. They slid in front of Hawkeye, kicking sand up as they ground to a halt.

“No,” Captain Hawkeye said.

“But-”

“No,” Hawkeye repeated and turned back towards the soldiers. “You have your orders. I’ll be watching. Wait on my signal.”

“But that’s my brother! And I am an alchemist!” Alphonse said, struggling to keep his voice low. Winry rested her hand on Alphonse’s shoulder but said nothing.  

“You can watch everything that happens from my perch above the suspected location,” she said. “Stay close to me. The last thing I want is for you two to be alone now.”

“But-”

“That’s final, Alphonse!” she said, before sweetening her voice. “Don’t worry. We all know what we’re doing. We’re going to get your brother back.”

Heridas didn’t get to see whether he continued to argue, because Heridas had to assemble the soldiers under his command, and together they marched to the targeted location, stopping beneath a slanted wall as cover.

It had been a long time since Heridas had worked like this. Although the soldiers behind him were Amestrian, their naiveté reminded him of the rotating cast of Ishvalan recruits he’d encountered during the War. Heridas would watch the lucky ones devolve from optimism to despair, their faces hardening as their friends died and their homes were destroyed in hellfire.

Since he’d arrived in Ishval, he thought of the War often, now intermingled with Edward Elric’s accusations that the Southern region had been abandoned. During the Ishvalan War, it had felt like a painful but necessary sacrifice, made to ensure the survival of Ishval, but every strategic decision had human consequences. A good commander had to see past the humanity to effectively calculate a soldier’s expendability. There was no way Heridas would have been able to do that. But, then again, Heridas had always known he would have been a shit soldier.

Heridas kept an eye on Hawkeye’s position above and waited for her signal, which came just a few minutes later when she flashed her light three times. Heridas gestured towards his group to begin their attack.

They kept as low to the ground as possible while maintaining their speed. While Heridas was well-practiced at running soundlessly, the soldiers behind him couldn’t silence the thumping of their boots against the sand or the rustling of their blue uniforms, visibly striking against the white terrain. He spied Miles’ group from across the way and noticed two additional blonds at the rear of his group.

Alphonse and Winry.

There was no time to ask whether Hawkeye had given in or they’d snuck away, so Heridas signaled toward Miles to begin their simultaneous charge into Gustav’s hideout.

There wasn’t a door to kick down at the front, so Heridas just jumped over the sandy rubble to enter the building, the soldiers just a moment behind.

Heridas braced himself for an immediate attack, but none came. The only evidence that this was Gustav’s location was a small encampment with some pillows and a stockpile of canned goods.

“Search the premises!” Heridas shouted, and the soldiers immediately obeyed, their heavy steps stomping across the dusty floors. Miles should be barging into the back at any moment now, and yet, there was no sign of Gustav or Edward.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood upright and his stomach churned.

He’d learned a long time ago that trusting his instincts meant survival.  

Something here wasn’t right.

And then it came.

An ominous cracking noise, slowly at first, like two tectonic plates caught on a hinge. He remembered that sound from the War. It wasn’t something he could ever forget.

In one clear instant, Heridas knew what was going to happen before it did.

The walls, which stretched three stories high and surrounded them on all sides, began to wobble. Most of their forces were inside, and Heridas tried to warn them, to make them understand, but he wasn’t sure if he was even speaking Amestrian. 

He was vaguely aware of distant screaming, but his utmost focus was on that cracking, the sound of the Ishvalan stones internally crumbling. This building was going to collapse on top of everyone, killing them all. The sand swooshed around them, and there was no time to run or hide. There was only one thing left to do: duck and cover his head. And pray.

Heridas collapsed into a kneeling position, a poor bastardization of his prostration every morning and night towards Ishvala, and he held his head low, his knees pressed into the sand, trying to ignore the foreboding cracking surrounding him.

_If I’m to die today, if I can be afforded mercy, give me a quick death._

_Ishvala, take me into your arms again._

A final cracking erupted and then a momentary pause, before the building collapsed around him. Heridas held his breath as the ground shook. Rocks and stones hit his back and arms, and he closed his eyes, waiting for it all to end.

And then quiet.

Heridas strained his ears for any more cracking, and when he was satisfied at the silence, he removed his arms from his head and opened his eyes.

He was alive.

Although he was covered in fallen debris, he could still feel the sun’s warmth beating down upon his neck, so he couldn’t be buried that deeply. It took him only a few moments to free himself with his alchemy, and he shook off sand and dirt as he pushed himself upright. It took him a few attempts to stand properly, because his back ached and one of his feet trembled under his weight. But with all of the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he had only a vague awareness of his injuries.

He surveyed the collapsed terrain surrounding him but couldn’t see anyone else, only destruction. Like before. Were there survivors buried in the rubble? Or had they escaped the explosion? Had the Old City of Kedesh been granted a fresh opportunity to again become a burial ground?

_And why was he afforded so many improbable survivals when he’d done nothing to deserve them?_

A mangled voice groaned underneath the rubble, but as much as Heridas wanted to assist with the rescue, he knew he couldn’t. Marius Gustav still lived, and Heridas knew that the greatest good he could gift the world was not fishing survivors from the wreckage. Someone else would have to do that.

 _Ishvala, forgive him_ , but Gustav had set this trap for them, and Heridas needed to end this. Now. No more innocent lives would be lost while Heridas still lived, despite Heridas’ vow to never take another life.  

_What was another to his laundry list of sins?_

Heridas climbed through the wreckage, taking care to test every step for sturdiness. He’d been in enough collapsed buildings to know that the deconstruction was unstable. He couldn’t exit towards the front, because of a mound of wreckage blocking it, so he crawled underneath a stone column, haphazardly draped across the far door.

And finally he was free from the explosion site, his lungs eagerly sucking in clean air again. He chanced a glance back at the collapsed building, afraid of who was still buried within it. It lay as a heap of stone and sand, no evidence of any human except a single unmoving hand, stretching upward to the sky.  

Heridas scanned the horizon and though he nearly missed him at first, a loan figure cloaked in white stood aloof from the chaos, a cool smirk gleaming towards the destruction he’d wrought. He wore no mask anymore, so even from the distance, his features were sharp.

Heridas didn’t hesitate.

He sprinted toward Marius Gustav, but rather than giving him the fight he expected, Gustav spun and fled.

The only thing Gustav seemed to be good at.

But Heridas had always been fast, his legs long and muscular. Although he was no longer on the run from the Amestrian military, physical fitness had always been prized in the priesthood. And yet, Gustav knew this area better than anyone, so Heridas had to be careful. It would be just as possible for Gustav to wait in ambush around any corner as it was for Gustav to lose him in the maze-like ruins. Heridas continued to trail him, careful not to lose the flash of dark hair spinning off into another pathway, mountains of wreckage on either side.

Heridas hadn’t gained any ground, but he hadn’t lost Gustav either. Although his lungs burned and his legs ached and his foot still felt wobbly from the explosion, his mind focused without the luxury of doubt.

He’d long since lost his sense of direction, as they wound through the remnants of the Old City, but when Heridas skidded around a partially reconstructed building, he realized that Gustav was racing towards Kedesh proper.

But it was all he could do just to keep up. Heridas’ alchemy was most effective in close proximity, so he just had to keep running, keep moving, and eventually, he’d have to catch up to Gustav.

Assuming Gustav wouldn’t just slip into the nearest crowd and vanish at the first opportunity.  

But he wasn’t fleeing towards the center of Kedesh or the marketplace. Instead, he was running…

Towards the clinic. The clinic that held Mustang.

That was the stupidest move Gustav could make. Even with Mustang’s injuries, all it would require would be a snap of his fingers, and Gustav would be a distant memory.

Gustav, though, stopped before he reached the clinic, pivoting back towards Heridas in a narrow alleyway… not far from the Kedeshian school, Heridas remembered with dizzying clarity.

In a tight location like this, Gustav could whip up a mini sandstorm and escape, so Heridas couldn’t give him the opportunity.

He sprinted toward Gustav, arms outstretched, ready to pass judgement, like he’d done to so many Amestrian alchemist before. But Gustav ducked out of the way.

 “You’ll have to be faster than that, Scar,” Gustav said, clapping his glove-covered hands together, but before they could touch the ground, Heridas dove at him.

Gustav ducked again, unable to find the opening to complete his alchemy.

They were surprisingly well-matched.

Gustav moved fast enough to flee from Heridas’ attacks but not fast enough to perform any transmutations. And Heridas kept throwing his arm out toward Gustav, seeking just a moment’s contact to finish the job, but Gustav slipped through his fingers. Over and over.

Heridas was growing frustrated, and Gustav, perhaps sensing this, stepped a few paces back. Once they were out of arm’s distance, both men wheezed. Gustav leaned over, his hands on his knees, his dark hair obscuring his face. But Heridas wasn’t in any state to dive towards him either. It was all he could do to keep upright.

“You can’t do it, can you, Scar?” Gustav said, pushing himself back into a fighting stance. “You aren’t fast enough.”

“Where’s Edward Elric?” Heridas growled.

“I’ve SO been looking forward to killing you, Scar,” Gustav said, his shoulders still bouncing from the exertion. “You have no idea. You’ve killed so many Amestrian alchemists, and now, I get to kill you. And the very alchemists you killed were the ones who’d stolen my thunder back in Ishval. It’s all so cyclical, isn’t it?”

“Where’s Edward Elric?”

Gustav tutted, a coy smile dancing on his lips, “Typical. You care only about your own kind, and nothing of dear Ariyn.”

“Where is he?”

“You know what the beautiful thing is, Scar? The best traps are laid with the best bait. Edward is in that very building, but if he even survived the explosion, and of this I doubt, he’ll learn how his supposed friends lead his brother to his death! He’ll be like putty in my hand.” Gustav laughed breathlessly.

“What do you want, Gustav?”

“I want to start another Ishvalan War. Isn’t that obvious? To finish the extermination once and for all!” The maniacal gleam in Gustav’s eyes reminded Heridas strikingly of Kimblee, the very insanity that had stolen his family and his home away.

Heridas charged at Gustav again.

And Gustav was too slow, too distracted by his own crazy dreams. Heridas stretched out his arm to touch Gustav’s head.

But Gustav ducked behind him and clapped against the sand.

Heridas wouldn’t let him escape, so he leaped towards him, and they collapsed onto the ground, struggling to find the advantage. Gustav was slimy and wiggled out of Heridas’ grasp, and with another clap, Heridas was flat on the ground, an alchemic hand made of sand grabbing at his midsection. He tried to push it away but it was snug against him, despite his flailing.

Heridas was trapped.

“What a fitting end,” Gustav spat. “To the alchemist murderer himself.”

_There were worse ways to go. Ishvala, forgive all of my transgressions._

Gustav leered over him, his gloved hands about to clap, and Heridas shut his eyes.

A shot rang out.

Heridas opened his eyes, and Gustav stumbled forward, eyes glossy. Just a moment later, he collapsed, falling directly on top of Heridas and bleeding out onto his tunic, his heavy body finally still.

And with that, Heridas’ sandy bonds broke, and he pushed Gustav’s corpse off of him. He glanced upward to see his savior, and he would swear that he’d never been more pleased to see Riza Hawkeye in his entire life. She strode towards him with a grim smile, a sniper rifle in her hands.

She lent him a hand and hoisted him upright. Heridas leaned over, slightly shaky, and gathered his breath. That was twice he’d come face-to-face with death today.

“The explosion?” he asked.

“Currently being searched for survivors,” she said, voice low. “Not all of the soldiers were found in time for the attack, so they’re working through that.”

“Of course,” Heridas said slowly, his mind still trying to process the lengthy day. “Of course. You weren’t in the explosion. How many….?”

“Casualties? We don’t know yet,” she said, gripping her rifle tighter. Her eyes found Gustav’s corpse, face down in the sand, and her gaze lingered on it for a moment.

“And how’d you get here?”

“One of the soldiers saw you pursuing Gustav. As soon as I had the opportunity, I followed. Could hear your fighting from a ways back,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re very lucky, Cleric Heridas.”

“I know,” he said.

They left Gustav’s body in the care of a few patrolling soldiers they’d flagged down, but Gustav lived on in his ongoing destruction.

Before they returned to the Old City though, they checked on Mustang, who was completely fine. Havoc, no surprise, was useless as a guard, cuddled up on one of the stiff clinic’s chairs and asleep through their short meeting.

Heridas and Hawkeye informed Mustang about Gustav’s death, which he was unsurprisingly relieved about. But after a momentary smile, he shifted toward Hawkeye, who stood beside the door, still and watchful, like a gargoyle guarding a temple. She’d already disassembled her rifle and stored it underneath Mustang’s bed, but Heridas doubted that she was unarmed.

“Captain Hawkeye, are you… okay?” Mustang asked. It was a strange question to ask a woman who’d once killed innocents, considering Gustav deserved death more than most.

“I’m fine, sir,” she said, and the two shared a long look. But then Hawkeye nodded toward Mustang and fled, Heridas just a moment behind.

But the day’s chaos was far from over, and Heridas didn’t know what to expect at the explosion site. They hurried through Kedesh back towards the Old City, shooing away curious civilians but collecting anyone who might be able to assist with the rescue efforts.

When they finally arrived back at the explosion site, it was swarming with soldiers and civilians alike. Heridas recognized a few of the local doctors and some of the patrolling Ishvalans digging through the rubble and pulling people out. A few Ishvalans had brought over dogs to help sniff out the missing men.

From the outside, it looked worse than it had felt. The quake had levelled what had once been three buildings, probably housing apartments. Each had been large, and taken together, the destruction stretched back past the parallel street. Its crumbling had left piles of stones, wall fragments, and appliances that hadn’t been properly damaged during the War itself. A brick fireplace almost entirely intact lay by the road, abandoned and useless.  

“How did he do this?” Hawkeye asked, as she surveyed the landscape.  

“Some kind of explosives,” Heridas said, taking in the wreckage. “Perhaps in conjunction with alchemy, manipulating the grains of sand embedded into the walls themselves. The tricky part would be angling it so he wouldn’t be caught in the explosion, but… obviously that wasn’t a problem for him.”

A nondescript soldier approached Hawkeye, and there was no more time for chatter. Heridas began digging out some of the soldiers and was relieved to find Alphonse and Winry alive and already pulled free from the rubble. Alphonse had a deep gash on his cheek, and his arm was twisted the wrong way; Winry had scratches up and down her arms, but she’d seemingly escaped serious injury. Except that she was unconscious.

Despite the doctor assuring Alphonse that Winry’s injury was likely nothing serious, and that it was possible that the shock had done more damage than any falling rocks, Alphonse was distressed, hovering over Winry’s prone form. Edward was still missing, and that couldn’t have soothed his nerves either.

Proving the doctor correct, Winry awoke soon after, and Alphonse, out of commission with his injured arm, took up sitting beside her, insistent on keeping her still.  

Heridas continued traversing the ruins, pulling people from beneath columns and assisting in every way he could, with manual labor or alchemy. It felt different, using alchemy as a tool of assistance and not of violence, but he didn’t mind it. It was what he imagined his brother would have done with his alchemy, should he have survived the War.

They still hadn’t found Edward and Ariyn yet. Heridas combed through again, this time with Hawkeye.

“He could’ve been lying to you. Maybe they’re not here,” Hawkeye said, pounding on a small segment of wall that hadn’t been destroyed. She put her ear close to it and knocked again.

“He wasn’t lying,” Heridas grumbled.

“Wait,” she said, knocking on the wall again. “It’s hollow.”

Heridas made quick work of the wall with his alchemy, and they discovered a narrow staircase leading underground. The stairs creaked as they stepped down, and the crumbling dusty walls didn’t make Heridas feel any more secure.

At the base of the stairs, it seemed like a dead end, like someone had begun digging out a tunnel and had gotten bored, but Heridas wasn’t born yesterday. He pounded on the wall, and the ceiling dropped a deposit of sand onto their heads.

“Careful,” Hawkeye said. “We don’t want to collapse it.”

“I’m trying,” Heridas said, but he had no intention of waiting for proper excavation. Edward had been missing for nearly forty eight hours now, and in the Ishvalan heat, Heridas didn’t have faith that he (or Ariyn, he mentally added) could survive without nutrition much longer.

So he’d have to take a risk that his alchemy wouldn’t bring the entire tunnel down around them.

Heridas had always been of the opinion that it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission, so before Hawkeye could protest, he slammed his hands onto the door, a blue light illuminating the dusty shaft. 

The door disintegrated before their eyes. Hawkeye, for what it was worth, sent him a disapproving look but said nothing else, as they rushed into the uncovered room.

Edward and Ariyn were lying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. They barely moved at their entrance.  

“Finally,” Edward said, pushing his head up, before immediately dropping it back onto the sand.

Maybe they weren’t in the best condition, but they were alive.  

Hawkeye returned with a few soldiers to carry them back up to the surface, and they lifted Ariyn Fitzgerald with ease. But as she passed Heridas, she grabbed onto his sleeve.

“Thanks,” she murmured, her eyes closing and her hand falling away. _Such a drama queen._

But he found himself touched anyway.

Edward, on the other hand, was equally weak and had broken automail, and yet, he refused to let anyone carry him out. No, they had to wait fifteen minutes for him to crawl up the staircase himself, because he refused to let anyone help him. It was so _Edward_ that Heridas let him do it, even though, once they reached the top of the stairs, Edward needed assistance to exit the collapsed building itself.

Edward and Alphonse’s reunion was so deeply personal that Heridas felt uncomfortable watching it, and finally, the tension left Alphonse’s shoulders. And as soon as Edward exchanged Alphonse for Winry, Alphonse began to bawl, explaining to everyone between sobs that it was just his new body causing the tears, but Heridas returned to the wreckage before he found out if anyone actually believed him.

But it wasn’t all good news. There had been severe injuries, five Amestrian soldiers dead, and one still unaccounted for.

Which troubled Heridas because he’d grown awfully fond of Major Miles. He prayed that Miles was merely trapped under some fallen debris, stuck but alive. Heridas couldn’t imagine creating a new Ishval without him.

Once the sun set, they’d be forced to leave the Old City until dawn. The Elrics, Winry, and Ariyn Fitzgerald had already been escorted to the clinic, as had the injured soldiers. But the dead soldiers had spent most of the afternoon lying side-by-side underneath a tarp, some missing extremities and some seemingly uninjured, as though they were merely sleeping.

Heridas kept staring at the mound. Five men. Five.

It didn’t compare to the casualties of the Ishvalan extermination or even the Promised Day, but a life was a life. Ishvala taught that all life was a precious gift, and here were five men, practically boys, who were merely unfortunate enough to have stood in the wrong place. During the War, Heridas had buried friends and family many times, but there was an emptiness that never faded. Nor should it. Empathy was the mark of humanity.

He didn’t envy Mustang, who would have to inform the families.

He hoped that they’d had the mercy of a quick death.

And still, no sign of Major Miles. Heridas checked the sun’s position, like he’d done every few minutes since the excavation began. If they didn’t find Miles, there was little chance he could survive the night alone.

It felt blasphemous that, to Heridas, one man could mean more to him than five deaths. After all, every life was a blessing of Ishvala, and yet… he hadn’t known the men who’d died, their youthful faces frozen and unfamiliar.

But Heridas knew Miles. Heridas also knew that without Miles, he would never have lived passed his life as Scar. And he doubted he could have started over in Ishval without a model like Miles guiding him on the right path.

The sky had started to fade into a pinkish hue, but Heridas ignored the ticking clock, instead foraging under a heap of wall fragments hidden beneath the brick fireplace. He was about to move on when he spotted a flash of red out of the corner of his eye.

“Help!” Heridas shouted, and as people rushed to his aide, they were able to lift the mammoth pieces of wall fragments to reveal Major Miles.

His eyes were closed, his white hair splayed underneath him. His face was loose in a peaceful expression, and when they called his name, he didn’t stir. The red Heridas had seen hadn’t been Miles’ sash across his tunic but shiny blood collecting on his shoulder, reflecting the nearly set sun’s weak rays. It didn’t seem like his chest was rising and falling, but it was hard to tell.

They called the doctor over and waited. The doctor leaned over Miles, and Heridas held his breath. The doctor’s examination was quick and thorough.

“He’s alive,” he said, and though this was followed by the doctor’s pronouncement of the possibility of internal bleeding and other serious injuries, Heridas barely heard it. Miles was alive, and that was all the hope that he needed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such a special announcement! Greenapplefreak over at deviantART AKA Lidoshka here at AO3 created a freaking beautiful piece fanart to accompany The Ishvalan Accords! I love it so much. Please check it out and leave it some love. It’s so amazing I can’t even deal:
> 
> http://fav.me/da9sj87 
> 
> Only two more chapters left! As always, thanks for reading and if you enjoyed the chapter, I’d love to hear from you.
> 
> Next week, there will be Winry’s POV!


	16. Winry Rockbell III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make yourself some tea and settle in, because this chapter is the longest one yet. Hope you enjoy!

The nightmare was finally over.

Alphonse, Edward, Winry, Ariyn, and Major Miles, as well as some of the other soldiers, were sent to the clinic for treatment as soon as it was permissible to move them, and leaving the Old City’s ruins behind flooded Winry with so much relief she nearly cried. Of course, Edward being Edward, he had to complain about getting sent to the clinic for “no reason” for over an hour, but Winry didn’t care.

They were alive. He was alive. The nightmare was finally over.

Were the Ishvalan Accords over? Not quite. But Winry had spent the last few days terrified that she’d never see Edward’s golden eyes full of life again. Between that and General Mustang getting shot and all of the attacks in Kedesh, living through everything else felt easy by comparison.

Winry was discharged from the clinic the next morning with a clean bill of health, and now, at last, she could relax.

At least until she saw Edward’s leg.

“EDWARD ELRIC! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY PRECIOUS AUTOMAIL?”

Edward, for what it was worth, looked meek and apologetic. For maybe a second.

“I was getting attacked by a crazy alchemist! I’m SO sorry that I banged up my leg a little!”

“A little?” Winry asked. “If I needed to repair some of the inner wirings, THAT would be a little banged up. You destroyed it! Mutilated it! It’s going to need to be completely redone. Give it to me.”

“But-but-” Edward leaned back into his hospital bed. Although Winry had already been discharged and Alphonse was on schedule to be cleared this afternoon, Edward’s injuries were more extensive, so despite his pleas to his doctor, he was still cooped up in the clinic.

“No,” she said, resisting the urge to wring his neck. “You can’t even walk on it, moron.”

“But you’re here getting treated too! You shouldn’t be doing automail work while you’re still being examined.” He gave her his best pleading puppy-dog eyes, but Winry had hardened her heart to that trick a long time ago.  

“I got cleared an hour ago,” she said. “No excuses. Give me the leg.”

But because Edward was mentally a three year old, he tried to make a run for it. With one functioning leg.

That moron.

He didn’t even make it off the bed before Winry pushed him back down.

“Stop squirming!” she said, struggling to keep his shoulders still as he kept wiggling away. Winry laughed as Edward continued to squirm, but even if he was fighting back with all of his strength, he was grinning too.

This was a very poor moment for Alphonse to walk in. Because Edward was lying in bed, Winry hovering over him, their bodies pushed close together as she attempted to steal away his leg.

“Um, um,” Alphonse fumbled, stepping back from the doorway in a panic. “Um. Sorry. I’ll just-”

“No! Wait! It’s not-”

She became very aware of the placement of her body over Edward’s, feeling a flush rise in her cheeks, but this was hardly the time.

“Al, he won’t give me his leg,” Winry said. “Wanna hold him down while I grab it?”

Alphonse’s eyes lit up with understanding, and between the two of them, they made quick work of Edward’s leg.

“There!” Winry said, finally detaching it and holding it up to the light. “I don’t see what the big deal was, Ed, it’s not like it was working anyway.”

Edward pouted and crossed his arms, “Whatever. How long will it take?”

“Just one day, I think. Two at the very most,” she said. With that, she strode towards the door, eager to present Edward with a fully-functioning automail leg again. And if she added a few tweaks here and there, well, no one really had to know.

“Wait!”

Winry spun around to find Edward sitting up in his bed. The bedsheets had slipped off of his shoulders, revealing bandages that slipped below his hospital gown.

“Yeah?”

“Would you-I mean, only if you wanted to- but… would you mind working on my leg in here?” Edward asked.

His cramped recovery room?

It was his alone, so it wouldn’t disturb anyone, she supposed, and it might be nice to tinker in a brighter, more sterile location than just the inn, but still…

Edward had always despised her automail work, even if it was for him, and Winry could envision the constant badgering, which was guaranteed whenever Edward was missing a limb. _You done yet? You done yet? You done yet?_

And yet, as Edward’s too-eager smile shone towards her, she didn’t have the heart to say no. His hair had fallen out of its usual braid, so it draped over his shoulders crookedly. His face was pale, but his forehead was lined with sweat beads reflecting the clinic’s fluorescent lighting.  

Edward had never looked better.

Winry had it _bad_.

“Sure,” she said with a shrug and started down the hall. She heard a distant, “you’re the best!” and couldn’t wipe off her smile as she grabbed her tools and returned in record time.

“You’re back,” Edward said as soon as Winry dropped her equipment on the side table. “The doctor sent Al back to his room, so I’m going mad with boredom.” He punctuated it with a groan, letting his head fall back onto his pillow and kicking up his remaining leg.

“You’ll live,” she said, beginning to unpack her work station and analyze his automail. “Hm.”   

“Hm? What’s hm? Is that a good hm?”

“That’s a good hm,” she said, turning over the leg a few times. “It’s actually not as bad as I’d thought, so you’re in luck.”

She unhinged the main plates and began rewiring the base of the ankle. Automail mechanics had always come easily to her, and with all of her experience, she could complete the diagnostic stages on autopilot, which left plenty of time for thinking about other things. Like Edward.

“Winry?”

“Yeah?” she said, not looking up from his leg.

“It must have been really hard when they used you to get to me,” he said.

Winry knew immediately what he was talking about.

“It was.”

“I’m sorry for putting you through that,” he said, dropping his head low.

“Ed? What’s gotten into you?” she asked, placing the leg down reverently. “You don’t have to apologize. It wasn’t your fault.”

“How do you stand it?” he asked. “Being so helpless?”

If it was asked by anyone else, Winry would be insulted, but she knew he didn’t mean it cruelly. She walked over to Edward’s bedside and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress slightly sagging under the additional weight.

“Everyone has different strengths,” she said, and after a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed onto Edward’s hands. “You told me once that my hands weren’t meant to kill. Yours weren’t meant to either.”

He opened his mouth, ready to protest, but she pressed on.

“Ed, your strength has never just been your alchemy. You give people hope. Not as an alchemist but as someone who wants to help people. Who _needs_ to help people.”

“But-”

“Deny it all you want, Edward, but underneath all of that bluster of yours, you really care about people. And you know how to inspire them.”

“But you’re the one who can make a real impact,” Edward said, as though urging Winry to change her mind and condemn him. “You’re trying to give the Ishvalan people access to automail. _Your_ automail. You’re really going to make a difference in their lives.”

“Automail can give someone mobility,” she said. “But it can’t make them walk. Only hope can do that, and you give people hope.”

“What’s hope worth?” Edward asked.

“It’s worth everything,” she said. “The Ishvalan Accords are all about striving for a better world. If you can’t hope for a better world, you can never achieve it.”

Edward merely lowered his gaze to his lap, and Winry returned to her automail. And for a while, it was just the two of them alone: Winry working and Edward silently sitting. But as soon as Alphonse was also cleared by the doctor, he returned as well, refusing to leave Edward’s side.

“May we come in?” a muffled voice asked from the other side of the door.

“Sure!” Alphonse said, even though there was no way he could have known who it was.

The door slid open, revealing Elders Shan and Vikram.

“You’re a part of the _Vaidya_ family,” Elder Vikram said without a greeting. “A _Yarash_ too.”

“Vikram,” Elder Shan warned, hobbling forward with her cane. Alphonse immediately offered her his seat, but she shrugged him off.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Elder Vikram asked. “You’re in the direct line of an ancient family and-”

“You said you weren’t going to do this,” Elder Shan muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Elder Vikram asked her. “Why they hid themselves, abandoning Ishval again when we needed someone like-”

“Someone like what, Elder?” Edward asked, lifting his chin towards him. “Someone you could despise until I became useful?”

“Ignore him,” Elder Shan said, resting her hand on Vikram’s shoulder. “He isn’t very good with surprises. But I love them! Another ancient Ishvalan line preserved! Truly something to be thankful for. Cleric Heridas told us this morning. I hope you don’t find fault with him for that.”

“No,” Alphonse piped up. “We don’t mind.”

Elder Vikram exhaled a long audible breath, “I… may not understand why you wanted to keep your secrets, but I… apologize for my behavior over the past months.”

Under the harsh lighting of the clinic, Elder Vikram’s own scarring encasing his neck and shoulders seemed to shine like a beacon, the thin lines bobbing as he spoke.

“I don’t want your apology,” Edward said, “not if you only gave it because I’m a _Yarash._ Just because I have a better status than you expected doesn’t mean that anything has changed about me! I’m still a _Z’hoom!_ ”

“I know,” Elder Vikram said, ducking his head. “You are. But… what you’ve done for the Accords has been crucial and I thank you for that.” Winry had stopped tinkering, unwilling to miss anything underneath her clanking. “I’m… trying, but Amestris has always been evil to me.”

“We don’t stand for Amestris,” Alphonse said quietly. “We’re just us.”

“I know,” Elder Vikram said. “You both, and your general too, have made great strides in winning our trust, but it’s a long road.”

“The Elrics have done nothing to lose your trust, Vikram,” Elder Shan said, her scratchy voice steady. “They have never been our oppressors or our enemies.”

“I understand,” he said. “But have leniency on an angry old man.” With that, Elder Vikram gave a curt nod, before fleeing the room altogether.

Elder Shan just shook her head, “I am sorry about him. Stubborn as a mule that one.”

“It’s all right,” Al said, again trying to gesture to the empty chair to get her into it.

“I’m afraid not, Alphonse,” she said, patting him on the head. “The Accords must continue, and someone has to mind Vikram.” She banged her cane against the floor for emphasis. “There are truly not enough words to express the joy you’ve gifted me. Seeing an ancient family live on, and not just live, but thrive generously and nobly, you truly live up to your family’s reputation.”

“Thank you, Elder,” they chimed together.

“But,” she said, “don’t forget that your line currently ends with the two of you. You should really secure your family by getting married and having some children!”

Alphonse laughed, but Edward froze, which made Elder Shan cackle, and even for a few minutes after she left, Elder Shan’s chuckles were audible from all the way down the hallway.

Winry immediately returned to her automail work, but it wasn’t long before Ariyn Fitzgerald barged in. Well, she wheeled in, due to the two casts encircling her ankles, and Winry didn’t know if she’d ever looked so human, her hair hanging over her shoulders and framing her face. It tempered the severity of her jagged features, and though she wasn’t smiling, she wasn’t glaring either.

“Would you mind giving us some privacy?” Ariyn asked, though it was phrased like a demand. Winry turned to Edward, who nodded, so Winry and Alphonse fled. And despite their inclination to eavesdrop at the door, they resisted and enjoyed some fresh air instead, the sweaty Ishvalan outdoors preferable to the stuffy clinic.

“What could she want with Edward?” Alphonse asked, scratching at the bandage wrapped around his forehead.

“Don’t know,” she said. “But they were kept there together, right? Maybe they came to an understanding.”

Together they wandered through the surrounding streets, careful not to stray too far. And when they’d figured that enough time had passed (and they’d picked up a snack at the market), they returned to a very quiet Edward.

“What did she want?” Alphonse asked, dropping a sweet jelly-filled doughnut into Edward’s lap.

Edward didn’t respond at first. Instead, he savored the treat, closing his eyes and chewing slowly. And when he’d run out of doughnut, he sucked the powdered sugar off of each of his fingers with the quiet smacking of his lips.

“She knows I’m Ishvalan,” Edward said when his fingers were finally clean.

“And?”

“Well,” Edward began, “the Ishvalan Accords won’t last much longer, so-”  

“What? Why?”

“Don’t worry, Al. It’s a good thing. They’ve been working on the latest draft all day. The final draft, which’ll be sent to Parliament, will be done in the foreseeable future, according to her.”

“So?” Winry asked.

“Representative Fitzgerald was just talking to Scar, and he said that a lot of Ishvalans are unhappy with any kind of deal with Amestris. Not all of them, but there are a vocal minority.” Edward shook his head. “Her words, not mine. Anyway, she thought that-” He broke off.

“What, brother?”

“It’s stupid. Never mind.”

“What?”

“She said that it would be good publicity for the Accords to have the Fullmetal Alchemist come out as Ishvalan. ‘Cause it would make the Ishvalans seem less foreign to the Amestrians, and it might make the Ishvalans more amenable to the compromises that the Accords settled on. All her words, by the way. And, I don’t know, I told her about our family and what it means. I just… after the Elders knew, it didn’t feel right for her not to know. So, of course, she starts saying that it’s just another reason to announce that I’m Ishvalan because my opinion would be highly respected, which is just stupid.”

“What do you think, brother?” Alphonse asked.

“I don’t know,” Edward said, pulling at the corners of his blankets. “What do you think?”

“I… well, I’ve never enjoyed hiding who we are. I know it was necessary, but I don’t think it is anymore. Mom always told us to be proud of our heritage-”

“Until she told us to keep it a secret,” Edward interrupted.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Winry said, before sitting down onto the edge of Edward’s bed. Al hesitated before mirroring her on Edward’s other side. “You don’t have to announce that you’re Ishvalan, just because you’re proud to be Ishvalan. It’s about whether you support the Accords and whether you want to deal with whatever the consequences may be.”

“The consequences?” Al asked.

“It’ll be different,” Edward said. “People will treat us differently.”

“But not the important people,” Alphonse said firmly. His voice had deepened since he’d been freed from the armor, but it still maintained an innocence that Edward’s had lost a long time ago. “If someone doesn’t like us anymore, then… well, we shouldn’t have cared about them in the first place!”

 “Maybe,” Edward said with a shrug.

“It’s not my decision to make,” Al said. “The only people who know we’re siblings are people who already know about us anyway, so it has nothing to do with me. But whatever you choose, you know I’ll support you.”

“Thanks,” Edward muttered. “There’s no coming back from this, Al. If I do it, Representative Fitzgerald wants me to do publicity and interviews and photos and all of that stuff. I’ll be Ishvalan forever.” Edward sighed. “You know, Al, if we’d been born looking like Mom, there wouldn’t have ever been a choice. If we’d had red eyes, everything would be different. Our whole lives are just genetic luck.”

“I know,” Al said, scooching closer to Edward, so that he could rest his head on his shoulder. “You say that a lot.”  

“Al!”

“What? It’s true, brother.”

They shared a companionable silence while Edward tried to compose his thoughts.

“What do you think, Winry?” he asked.

“I think,” - Winry’s eyes darted from Edward to Alphonse and then back to Edward- “I think you already know what you want to do, but you’re scared.”

“I’m NOT-”

“It’s okay to be scared, Ed,” she said, grabbing his hand. The hand that had once been her automail and now was warm skin. A miracle in its own right. “We’ll always be here for you.”

The following week passed in a blur. Winry reattached Edward’s automail before he pestered anyone into an early grave, and although he’d never say anything, Al was noticeably relieved once Edward was walking again.

Because of Gustav’s death, there was no need for the Amestrian reinforcements, so they were shipped back to Central, along with the five coffins. Even though Mustang was still in poor health, he insisted on attending their send-off, eventually acquiescing to Hawkeye wheeling him to the station.

General Mustang looked small in his wheelchair, much as Edward had after he’d performed human transmutation, but he held his head high as he delivered an inspirational speech to the soldiers thanking them for their service. The road here had been long, and though Winry couldn’t forget that Mustang’s injuries were inflicted by one of those men, he hadn’t displayed any anger, urging commonalities and cooperation. Ultimately, Mustang had probably just wooed himself more loyal troops in the long run.

Roy Mustang 1. Ariyn Fitzgerald 0.

Soon the Ishvalan Accords treaty was finalized, Winry making sure to slip in some guaranteed subsidies for automail for the Ishvalans who’d lost limbs during the War. During Winry’s proposal, Ariyn Fitzgerald had sent her a knowing smirk, which made her feel slimy, but Winry didn’t regret it. Many Ishvalans who’d most benefit from the automail couldn’t afford it, so if this good deed had to be framed in a political context, then so be it.

It was decided that Ishval was going to, at least temporarily, remain a part of Amestris. If anything, Gustav had cemented this. The destinies of Ishval and Amestris were intimately linked, the traumas of each connecting and binding them together, and it was only together that they could find shared salvation. Ishval, however, would retain additional independence compared to other Amestrian regions. And everything was done with the stipulation that this nebulous status would continue to be re-evaluated as the reconstruction of Ishval progressed.

The Ishvalan Accords itself was a thorough document, long but not verbose. Although Winry didn’t know every single detail of its contents, it was truly something to be proud of, and everyone involved certainly was.  

Even Elder Vikram was pleased enough with the final draft (and he enjoyed grumbling even more than Granny).

“And now, we await the people’s criticism,” Heridas said with the smallest of smiles.

“On both sides, I’m sure,” Mustang agreed, but he was in good spirits too. Although he was still wheelchair-bound, he’d at least escaped the clinic, confined instead to the inn. Major Miles, on the other hand, had been completely cleared and was in such good spirits that he actually laughed.

To drum up support for the new treaty and as a measure of good will, the Fuhrer and a few of his top officials would soon arrive in Ishval for more press and publicity. So there were still plenty of things that could go wrong, making all of their efforts for naught.

But now wasn’t the time for such worrying.

So the entire group of them, Abra and Ariyn Fitzgerald included, gathered around the dining room table and set aside a few hours to celebrate. There was a bit of drinking (for Havoc and Breda it was more like a lot of drinking, but they seemed to have a high tolerance for alcohol), tons of food, and a general comradery in the air that Winry hadn’t ever felt in this group before, the shared buoyancy of accomplishing something special.  

That she would sit at the same table as her parents’ killer would have horrified her once, but as she watched Heridas speak to Mustang, she saw understanding in both of their eyes. _Or maybe she was just seeing what she wanted to see._

The candles had nearly melted to the stubs, so the light was dim. Conversation had given way to an easy, comfortable silence when Edward rose.

“I’ll do it.”

Maybe because of the sleepy atmosphere or maybe because of the large quantities of alcohol consumed or maybe because of the ambiguity of his statement, but no one reacted, which made Edward frown.

“Do… do… dodo,” Havoc babbled. (Winry took back what she said about him handling his alcohol well.)

“I’ll come out as Ishvalan,” Edward clarified. This gave him the reaction he wanted, with the attention of the room shifting entirely towards him.

“Fullmetal,” Mustang said. “You don’t have to do this. We’ll drum up support another way.” Hawkeye echoed his sentiments, but Edward’s mouth remained set, eyebrows furrowed. When Edward was like this, nothing in this world could change his mind.  

“No, I’m sure.”

“This isn’t something to take lightly,” Heridas said, his gravelly voice firm. He hadn’t touched any booze, which seemed to match perfectly with his personality.

“I know,” Edward said.

“What do you think about this, Alphonse?” Hawkeye asked.

“I think it’s nice,” Al said, before leaning over Edward to grab another handful of roasted chickpeas.

And then everyone seemed to turn at once to Ariyn Fitzgerald for her take on this development. She smiled, which crinkled the corners of her eyes.

“I think this might actually work.”

The details of Edward’s “coming out” were carefully planned over the following days. Mustang had wanted a private interview which could run in the paper; Ariyn had pushed for a flashier press conference in Kedesh. But it was ultimately Edward’s decision, and he deferred to Mustang’s advice of an intimate interview with a reporter that Mustang knew.

“She’s good at what she does,” Mustang said. “She’ll treat you right, and we’ll get a copy before it goes out to anyone.” At Edward’s widening eyes, he offered the option to quit, but Edward merely scoffed, saying he didn’t like reporters.

“Just be careful,” Havoc said. “She’s a good reporter, but she’s also a major flirt. It’s why she and Mustang get along so well.”

“Just because you don’t have any luck with the ladies, doesn’t mean that everyone else is a _major flirt_ ,” Mustang said, and their conversation soon devolved into squabbling.

The reporter in question was Claudia Summers, who was going to arrive with the Fuhrer and his entourage exclusively for her interview with Edward. She apparently had leaped at the opportunity, though she only knew a few cursory details so far.

The night before Claudia Summers was due to arrive, Edward couldn’t sleep. This usually wouldn’t concern Winry, but he wouldn’t stop pacing and she had a very sensitive ear to the way his automail clanked as he walked. Not noticeable to the average person, perhaps, but it was driving her up the wall. All she wanted to do was steal his leg back, so she could readjust the slight imbalance she heard, but she doubted that would go over well.

Alphonse, of course, had no such issues and slept on obliviously.

Winry was apparently not going to sleep well that night, so instead of wasting more time tossing and turning, she tapped on Edward’s shoulder.

“Wanna go for a midnight stroll?” Winry whispered, figuring that it would calm Edward’s nerves for the big day tomorrow. For a split second, she thought she saw a flash of terror in his eyes, but it was gone a moment later, so she dismissed it when he nodded.

Walking side by side with Edward was strange because he was actually taller than her. It meant that she had to take longer strides, because she was NOT asking him to slow down. That would lead to such gloating she couldn’t bear it.

“Don’t worry, Ed,” Winry said. “Tomorrow’s gonna go just fine.”

“Huh?” he asked, before nodding. “Yeah, yeah.”

The dark streets of Kedesh were quiet, but the shadows didn’t scare her. The stars illuminated their way, but even without the bustling of the daytime, Kedesh felt impressive. It would continue to expand as Ishval was rebuilt one brick at a time. Every person here, Amestrian and Ishvalan alike, was laying the foundation of the new Ishval, and it made her so proud to be a part of it. It wouldn’t be easy. Edward’s tense shoulders were testament to that enough, but it would be done. It had to be.

“Um,” Edward said, kicking some of the loose sand in his path.

“Yeah?”

“Um.”

“Is something wrong?” Winry asked.

“Er, no.” Edward wouldn’t look at her, so they continued walking.

“Um, Winry?”

Winry stopped, “Yeah?”

“Never mind.”  

“After all of that? Just spit it out!” Winry threw her hands on her hips, and Edward paused, rubbing the back of his neck. By now they’d reached the main square of Kedesh, so they were surrounded on all sides by looming buildings, which hid the stars and the night sky.

“Fine!” Edward shouted. “EQUIVALENT EXCHANGE!”

 “Huh?”

“I’ll give half of my life to you, and you give half of yours to me!”  Even under the limited starlight, the flush on his cheeks shone pink, and although Ishval was warm throughout the night, it wasn’t nearly hot enough to warrant all of the sweat accruing on his forehead.  

“Really?” Winry asked, resisting the urge to yell even louder and wake all of Kedesh. “Do you _have_ to treat everything like alchemy? The whole equivalent exchange thing is just nonsense!” 

“What?”

“It’s nonsense!” Winry repeated. “How about I just give you my whole life?”

_Her mouth had always worked faster than her brain._

“Wait!” she clarified, because that felt like way too much. That _couldn’t_ be right. “Maybe not _all_ of it! Ninety … eighty percent? Seventy… wait, no that’s not enough!” She started counting on her fingers. “What about eighty-five? Yeah, eighty-five is a good number!”

She suddenly felt so flustered, her face must be burning up, and she sort of just wanted to crawl into the earth and die. But then Edward burst out laughing.

“What? Shut up!”

“Sorry,” Edward said, and he wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. She had half a mind to just march back to the inn right now, but then he leaned in so close she could see the faint reflection of the stars in his golden eyes. “You’re so incredible! You knocked equivalent exchange flat on its butt in just a few words!”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? Are you making fun of me?” Winry murmured.  

“Not at all,” Edward said quietly. Their bodies were touching now, so that she could feel the rising and falling of his chest. He opened up his arms, and without thinking, she rested her head down, finding that it fit perfectly in the crook of his neck. They stayed like this for a full minute, their chests undulating together as one.

When they separated, Edward awkwardly rubbed his neck again.

“Um… ok,” he said.

_Alchemists._

_Or maybe it was just men in general._

She held back an eye roll and grabbed his hand, leading him further into Kedesh again. His hand was smooth against her calloused fingers, hardened from all of her automail work. Edward kept quiet, and she didn’t have anything to say either. Instead, they just enjoyed the silence, the Ishvalan night, and the comfort of having the other by their side.

All too soon, they arrived at the edge of Kedesh proper, the Old City’s ruins dotting the sand and stretching towards the horizon. Although they’d reached the end of their path, Winry didn’t want to go back to the inn yet, so she sat down on a nearby hill, and with a bemused smile, Edward kneeled beside her.

They discussed Ishval and the Accords, which transitioned into useless gossip about some of the kids from Resembool. At some point, they leaned back, so their gaze shifted to the vast starry sky above them, its expanse vaster even than the Old City’s ruins.

When the conversation lulled, Winry dropped her head against his chest.

“Hm? You’re not nervous anymore,” she said, suddenly noticing that there wasn’t any tension in his shoulders. 

“Why would I be nervous?” he asked.

“The interview tomorrow? Claudia Summers? You’ve been stressing out all night!”

Edward laughed. The movement jostled her, so she twisted her head back to properly face him.  

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No, no,” he said, still laughing. “It’s just… I wasn’t nervous about the interview at all! I was nervous about what… what I was going to say to you.”

“You kept pacing because… you were nervous about confessing to me?” she asked.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“So you used alchemy?” she asked, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” he said defensively. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Oh, Ed,” she said, resting her head onto his shoulder. “You could have said almost anything and it would have worked.”

Edward awkwardly wrapped his arm around her, and Winry couldn’t ever remember feeling so at peace.

They never made the decision to fall asleep, but she didn’t feel any regret when she finally closed her eyes, Edward’s shoulder the perfect pillow.

“Winry?”

“Five more minutes,” she murmured. Although she didn’t open her eyes, she gradually became aware of a few things: her back hurt, her shoulders were stiff, and the sun was beating down on her.

_Huh?_

She shot up, Edward’s bleary-eyed smile the first thing she saw. The sun had recently risen, and his tunic was disheveled, like he’d never gone home that night. Which he hadn’t. _They_ hadn’t. Winry knew that she should feel mortified, but as Edward leaned over and offered his hand to help her stand, she just couldn’t muster anything but delight.

“We stayed out all night,” Winry said, hiding a yawn behind her fingers.  

“I guess,” he said, blinking at the sun. Although it hung low in the sky, the color palette of sunrise was nowhere to be found. “Oops.”

She brushed more sand off of her pants, before abandoning it as a lost cause. Instead, she grabbed onto Edward’s hand, enjoying the surprised look she received.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, but a slight flush tinged his cheeks. “You know, if we’re out already, we might as well grab some breakfast at the market.”

She smirked, “Might as well.”

The morning rush of the Kedeshian marketplace was noisy and frenetic, full of jostling bodies and loud bartering, but somehow it felt strangely intimate, Edward and Winry just two anonymous people in the crowd.

They grabbed a few sweets to go, and by the time they’d returned to the inn, they were licking the last vestiges of the sugar off of their fingers. But her right hand was still interlocked with his left, as though separating would negate last night’s confession.

It was only as they swung the squeaky gate in and bounded up the cobblestone pathway that Winry began to wonder if someone had noticed their absence.

So she only had a moment to contemplate before the inn’s door opened, and they were greeted with the majority of the delegation’s eyes blinking towards them.

For the first time all day, Winry felt dirty. Her hair was imparted with the desert smell, and her clothing was unkempt from sleeping on the ground. And the sand was everywhere. In her ears, underneath her fingernails, everywhere. All she wanted was to get cleaned up and rinse her memory of the mass scrutiny.

“Where have you been?” Mustang asked, wheeling himself towards the doorway.  “You just left… for fun? You didn’t think to leave a note? I thought better of you, Fullmetal! I had hoped you’d have grown out of this immaturity and-”

Mustang’s rant was interrupted by a squeal.

A squeal from Abra.

It was high-pitched, as Abra rushed over to them, her hands covering her mouth, “Congratulations!”

“Huh?” Mustang asked, but Madam Abra ignored him.

“So when’s the wedding?” Abra asked, and Winry followed her gaze downward to Edward’s hand interlocked with hers.

Edward flushed, and Winry could feel her own blush emerging, but neither of them had let go either.

“Madam Abra!” Edward said. “We didn’t- we just- we didn’t- WE JUST FELL ASLEEP!”

“SO WHEN IS THE WEDDING?” Abra shouted back, completely ignoring Edward’s spluttering. “Were you thinking of a large event or a small one? It really depends on how extensive your guest list is-”

“We didn’t- it’s not-” Winry tried to explain, but the words weren’t coming out right.

“That’s good, dear,” Abra said with a nod. “You better wait until after the wedding to do anything unseemly. Otherwise people might get the wrong idea.”

Winry wanted to sink into the floor. She wanted to collapse into a pile of goo and ooze beneath the floorboards and stay there forever. She couldn’t muster up the courage to look at anyone’s faces, though she suspected that Abra could probably fry something off of her flushed cheeks.

“Such a nice boy,” Abra continued, and she leaned into Winry, kissing her on both cheeks. “You’ve found a good one.” Abra winked, and Winry honestly could do nothing but stand there. Edward wasn’t in any better shape, paralyzed beside her.

“Is it true?” Alphonse piped up from the back. “You’re getting married? Congratulations!”

This was the last straw.

“NOT YET!” Winry yelled.

“Yet,” Abra said, contemplatively rubbing her chin with her fingers. “We’ll make a fine marriage out of the two of you yet.”

Winry rubbed her temples, chancing a look at Edward. But rather than being ready to wring Abra’s neck like she’d expected, he just stood there, his whole face -from the tip of his nose to the base of his neck- beaming a dull pink. At Winry’s attention, he shot her a shy smile, and unwittingly, Winry returned one in kind.

“Aw,” the whole room seemed to echo at once.

Winry was _so_ done with this.

“I’m getting cleaned up now if anybody minds!” she shouted, before ducking her head and marching upstairs, dragging Edward by the hand behind her.  

The last thing she heard was Havoc discussing someone “paying up.”

But Winry didn’t stop until they were back in their room and had shut the door behind them. They let out identical sighs of relief.

“Well, that was … something,” Winry said.

“Yeah.”

But they didn’t have time to commiserate in their shared humiliation, because the Fuhrer’s train arrived that afternoon. They washed up quickly, the running water the only break in the silence.

Finally, when Winry felt presentable again, she knocked on the bathroom door.

“You almost done?”

The door swung open, and Edward was just drying the top of his head with a towel.

“I’m coming, woman,” he said, throwing the towel back onto his bed and shaking his bangs back into place. Not that it mattered much. They’d always gone where they’d pleased.

But before they left the room, Winry grabbed onto Edward’s wrist, pulling it back towards her. And before she could lose her nerve, she rose onto her tip-toes and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“For luck,” she muttered, dropping Edward’s wrist. She made to walk out, but Edward spun her back around.

“For luck,” Edward repeated, and suddenly his lips were on hers.

It was a chaste kiss as far as those things went, but Winry didn’t have a lot to compare it to. His lips were warm, and she felt her arms wrap around his neck, as they unwillingly separated.  

“You don’t need luck,” Winry said.

He smirked, “But it never hurt.”

Edward and Winry returned back to the lounge and joined the waiting party. No one was doing much. Alphonse was helping Madam Abra, Havoc and Breda were milling about, Heridas and Miles were speaking with the Elders, and Ariyn Fitzgerald was chatting to a mostly silent Hawkeye. Everything was as it should be.

Except that Mustang was a nervous ball of energy, and he began peppering Edward with advice for the interview.

“Don’t mention how State Alchemists weren’t allowed to be Ishvalan. That wouldn’t reflect well, and don’t forget to smile. Be friendly. Actually, just don’t act like yourself at all.”

“You’re a right bastard, you know that, Mustang?” Edward said, though it was said with so much affection that Mustang didn’t bother responding.

“Ignore him,” Hawkeye said. “Don’t worry- you’ll be fine, Edward.”

“I wasn’t worried to begin with!”

“And don’t forget to say how proud you are of the Accords,” Mustang added, wheeling himself backwards and forwards in sort of a pacing motion. “And if she asks you a question you don’t want to answer, just say that you don’t feel comfortable answering. That’s much better than giving an answer you’ll regret later.”

“And what about Gustav?” Edward asked.

“Classified,” Mustang said. “There was an attacker who was killed while using offensive alchemy on the Amestrian delegation. Everything else is extraneous.”

“Easy, Mustang,” Havoc said, throwing Edward a thumbs up motion. “He’ll be fine.”

“Yeah!” Edward said, pointing to himself. “I’m very personable.”

Havoc and Breda burst out laughing, which left Edward put out. Alphonse patted Edward on the shoulder but couldn’t hold back a snicker.

“That reminds me!” Abra said. She raced back to her room and returned just moments later with a package wrapped in cloth.

“Here,” she said, stretching out the bundle towards Edward.

“Huh?”

“We were talking,” Abra said, gesturing around at the others in the room. “And we figured that it might be nice if you looked the part.”

Edward sent them a questioning look but uncovered the package with care. Underneath the wrappings lay neatly-folded Ishvalan attire, including a white tunic and the signature Ishvalan burgundy and golden sash.

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” Major Miles said.

Edward said nothing, but Miles must not have noticed the gentle way Edward’s thumb brushed over the narrow stitching or the tight grip he had over the sash, as though he feared that it wasn’t real. For a split second, she wondered if he was going to cry. But the moment passed, and Edward nodded.

“Sure, I’ll wear it,” he said nonchalantly.

“You sure you know how to put it on?” Elder Vikram asked with a smirk, though Edward nodded without even a sarcastic retort.

But when Edward returned wearing the Ishvalan attire, even Elder Vikram stared slack-jawed at his entrance.

And he wasn’t the only one.

“Wow,” Abra said, her eyes shimmering.

Edward stood for one glorious moment in triumph, head high, shoulders back, golden eyes gleaming. A determined half-smile gracing his lips.

And in that moment, Winry could see his half-Ishvalan heritage before her eyes for the first time.

Ever since he was young, Edward had avoided the sun on his mother’s instruction, but that was almost impossible in Ishval. So since he’d arrived, his skin had gradually darkened under the desert’s rays and new freckles dotted his cheeks just beneath his eyes.

As Edward noticed everyone’s eyes on him, he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and bounced his weight from one leg to the other, and the spell was broken.

“What?” he asked.

“You should wear your braid,” Abra said. “It’s more Ishvalan.”

Edward pulled his hair free from his tie, so it hung loose around his shoulders, before he began neatly braiding it in the back.

The Fuhrer’s train soon arrived and as soon as greetings were exchanged, Mustang’s reporter, Claudia Summers, retreated into the dining room with Edward, closing the door behind them.

“We should go,” Breda said.

“We definitely shouldn’t listen in,” Havoc agreed.

“You’re very right,” Mustang said.

And then they all fought to press their ears over the one slim crack in the wall.  

“Really?” Hawkeye asked and shared an exasperated eye roll with Ariyn Fitzgerald.

Winry wasn’t worried about Edward though. Despite his abrasiveness, he’d never struggled with getting people to like him.

“Don’t worry,” Mustang said, wheeling over. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Winry raised an eyebrow towards him.

“Good point.” 

Winry used the time to tinker with her new automail designs, and before she knew it (though long after the sun set), Claudia and Edward finally re-emerged.

“That was one helluva time,” Claudia said, throwing her arms around Edward. Who, for what it was worth, froze until she let go.

_Don’t be jealous. Don’t be jealous._

But as soon as Claudia fled upstairs, Edward turned to Winry with a wide grin, and all worries about Claudia Summers vanished.

“So?” Mustang asked.

Before Edward could answer, Abra herded everyone in the lounge into the dining room so that they could speak freely. Heridas lingered towards the back of the group, but when Winry smiled towards him, he nodded back and followed behind them, closing the door as he entered.

“So?” Mustang repeated, and the rest of the crowd listened eagerly.

“So… it went fine,” Edward said. He leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet onto the table until Abra shooed them off. “It’s not done though.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Edward said. “She was looking really tired, and she said she’s going to work on what she has, but she has a few more questions for tomorrow.”

“You were talking for hours. How long is this going to be?” Havoc asked.

“Claudia likes to thoroughly get to know her people of interest,” Mustang said, but under the dim lighting, Winry could see the tension in his shoulders. He kept rolling his wheelchair forward and backward, until Riza grabbed onto the edge and held him in place. He could have pushed out of it, but he didn’t, letting his hands drop to his lap.

“So what did she ask about? What did you say?” Alphonse asked. Of everyone gathered, he was the keenest, and Edward responded to the enthusiasm in kind.

“Being the Fullmetal Alchemist. Helping people.” Edward shrugged. “It never really felt like I went out of the way to help people.”

“You did garner quite the reputation,” Riza said. “The youngest State Alchemist ever, and you never had that… snobbishness that a lot of State Alchemists have.”

“Hey!” Mustang said, but Riza elbowed him.

“I never said I was talking about you.”

“Anyway,” Edward said, “I talked about why I left the military.”

Everyone began talking at once.

“I know, I know,” Edward said, raising his hands to silence the chatter. “Calm down, calm down. I didn’t say anything about human transmutation or the homunculi or anything like that. I’m not stupid. I just said that I’d finished that stage of my life. She asked about a lot of things, I guess. What life was like in Ishval and _Netanya_ and stuff like that.”

 “You were talking for a while,” Breda said.

“Yeah,” Edward said. “She asked some weird, random questions too. Like about how our parents met, Al.”

Al’s eyes lit up, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Edward said. Although he was slouching and displaying none of the easy confidence from earlier, the Ishvalan garb still suited him well, as though he’d never worn anything else.  

“So, how _did_ your parents meet?” Abra asked, leaning forward. “I love a good story.”

“Er, you really want to know?” Edward asked, but at the many nods he received, he just sighed. “Fine.”

“Do you know this story?” Riza asked Alphonse, who nodded and rested his head on his hands, waiting for Edward to start anyway.

“My father, Von Hohenheim, was an alchemist,” Edward began, filling in the details for those who hadn’t met his father. “He wanted to study these ancient Ishvalan ruins, which had inscriptions about the olden Ishvalan alchemic practices-”

“But I thought Ishvalans never used alchemy,” Breda said.

“Ishvalans don’t use alchemy anymore,” Heridas said. “But there are rumors that hundreds of years ago, when Ishval was first forming from all of its disparate regions, healing alchemy was acceptable, but it’s all hearsay. No one really knows, but if alchemy _was_ in use then, it was quickly abandoned once Ishval centralized.”

“Yeah,” Edward said, “Anyway, so there were these ruins that Hohenheim wanted to study, and they were only about a day’s trek from the city of _Netanya.”_

“Where you’re from,” Heridas provided.

“Right. Because of the ancient ruins’ ties to alchemy, the elders of the town didn’t want any outsiders visiting them. However, there were two people on the town’s council that defended Hohenheim and argued that the council had no business hiding away Ishvalan history. These two people were my grandfather and my grandfather’s brother, who was also the head of the _Vaidya_ family. My family.

“Eventually, the council acquiesced and allowed Hohenheim to stay in _Netanya_ while he studied the ruins. As a sign of good will, my grandfather allowed Hohenheim to stay in his home.”

Abra let out a quiet sigh, “This must be where it gets good.”

“See, my mom had always been fascinated by alchemy, but she’d never been able to try it before. She’d never met a real alchemist, and there weren’t any books on alchemy accessible to her in _Netanya._ So, of course, when a real alchemist came, she was immediately fascinated by it. And by him.

“When the council decided that Hohenheim needed an escort to the ruins and around town, my mother leaped at the chance. And because my grandfather was the one who’d argued for Hohenheim to be allowed into _Netanya_ in the first place, he couldn’t really protest.

“Alchemy was obviously frowned upon in Ishval and in my family, so my grandfather wasn’t thrilled about his daughter’s fascination with the traveling alchemist.

“Hohenheim was only supposed to stay there for a few weeks, but the weeks turned into months, and everyone just got used to him being around. Eventually, he confessed that he’d finished studying the ruins a long time ago and that the only reason he’d stayed was because of my mom.”

Edward twisted his face, as though he couldn’t imagine Hohenheim as a lovesick interloper, and although Winry couldn’t remember Hohenheim well, it was difficult to imagine him ever loving someone enough to delay further research.

“Your family couldn’t have been pleased,” Abra said.  

“My mom was the youngest sibling of eight,” Edward said. “By the time my parents met, all of her other siblings had married, and most of them already had kids. The _Vaidya_ line was secured, so being the youngest of eight, there was no way that she’d ever become the head of the family or that it would ever go to her children. So, even though it was a bit… odd, it wasn’t exactly… forbidden either.

“And when Hohenheim stayed at their house for all that time, somehow –don’t ask me how- they warmed up to him. So he was welcomed into the family without much of a fuss. Sure, there were some other ancient families who turned up their noses at him and thought that it was completely scandalous. But they were pricks anyway. My mom and Hohenheim ended up getting married the next year, and… yeah.”

“I love a good romantic story,” Abra said squeezing her eyes shut and shimmying her shoulders. “That’s so cute.”

Edward froze, like he didn’t know how to deal with Hohenheim being complimented, so Winry slid her hand onto his, squeezing it gently.

“How were you treated by your family then?” Abra asked.

“Everyone was really nice,” Edward said. “Even our great uncle, who’d sometimes talk badly about Hohenheim, still liked us.” Edward puffed out his chest. “What can I say? We were really cute kids.”

Alphonse laughed, “Well, one of us was.” And Edward slightly deflated, before reaching over to give Alphonse a good-natured shove.  

The night wore on, and soon they left the dining room to properly schmooze with the newly arrived Amestrians. All of the politics was exhausting to witness, so at the earliest possible moment, Winry snuck up the stairs and back to her room. She’d been doodling a few automail designs which would make automail easier to maintain in the harsh desert climate. If she could tweak the outside plating (and maybe change the material?), sand wouldn’t get into it and there’d be less grinding.   

“Wake up.”

Winry jumped.

“You fell asleep working,” Edward said, leaning over to see her designs. “Interesting.”

“Really?” Winry asked.  

“Not at all, but I hope it’s going well.” 

For the first time in a long time, all three of the Resembool trio went to sleep early, and even more unusually, Winry awoke the next morning feeling well-rested. It was particularly nice sleeping in a bed, after a night on the hard sand, so she awoke in a good mood.

Until she remembered that the interview with Claudia Summers was continuing today.

Claudia Summers with her mature, rounded lips and well-defined hips. And the plunging neckline on her dress that accentuated her chest, especially when she greeted each man by dipping into a bow.   

Winry wasn’t jealous at all.

Breakfast came and went without a sign of Claudia Summers. It wasn’t until most of the inn had gathered that Claudia lazed downstairs, a notepad dangling from her fingertips. She grabbed a few pieces of leftover toast and gestured to the back room.

“Shall we, hun?” she asked.

Edward rose, but Mustang raised his hand, “Do you mind talking out here?”

Claudia shot him a coy smile, “What’s up your sleeve, Roy?”

“Nothing,” Mustang said with a smirk. “I just thought it would be more comfortable, and it’ll all be public knowledge soon anyway…”

“You just want to eavesdrop,” Claudia said. Mustang rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

“Do you mind, Ed?” Claudia asked. “If you’re going to filter yourself in any way, we don’t need to…?”

“I don’t mind,” Edward said, sitting back down, so Claudia shrugged her shoulders, pulled up a chair next to him, and uncapped her pen.

Winry had heard only a very filtered version of Edward’s tales in Ishval, and though she’d always wanted to know more about his life before he’d moved to Resembool, this wasn’t how Winry would have imagined it. Rather than just the two of them talking (or three, most likely, including Al), all of the couches and chairs were full and everyone from Claudia Summers to Mustang to Gilad (the little boy Abra looked after) to the Fuhrer himself were listening in.

“Please, no comments,” Claudia said towards the crowd. “Edward only. You got that, sweetheart?” The “sweetheart” she referred to was Edward, who nodded with a grimace.

“All right then, let’s pick up where we left off yesterday,” she said, flipping through her notepad. “We had just finished discussing some of your family. Hm.” Claudia skimmed through her notes, before turning her attention back to Edward. “Okay, how about this: what do you think is the most common misconception that Amestrians hold about the Ishvalan War? You went to school in Amestris, so you must have some understanding of how it’s taught, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Edward said slowly. “The most common misconception would have to be… well, I can’t speak knowledgably about the warfront itself, because I was so young at the time. But, in my experience, the most common misconception would be that the extermination happened quickly enough that it was a shock to the Ishvalans living through it.

“I guess the way it was explained in Amestris was that the late Fuhrer King Bradley signed Order 3066, and then the Amestrian military began killing every man, woman, and child in its path. This was obviously shocking to Ishvalans, but the story is just left like that, right?”

Claudia nodded, and Edward leaned back in his chair.

“See, you can’t exterminate large cities and towns instantaneously, even with State Alchemists, and the Ishvalan supply lines had maintained enough communication across Ishval that the cities in the Amestrian military’s path knew what was coming.”

“Let me clarify,” Claudia said, looking up from her scribbling. “In your town-”

“ _Netanya_ ,” Edward supplied.

“In _Netanya_ , you knew that the Amestrian military was on its way and was planning on levelling the entire city with its inhabitants inside?”

“Yes.”

“How far in advance did you know?” Claudia asked. “Why didn’t anyone try to run?”

“About a week,” Edward said. Although his gaze wandered as he spoke, his eyes never ventured toward the corner that housed Mustang, Riza, and Fuhrer Grumman. “And some people did try to run. But where could they run to? In one direction was the advancing military, in another was endless desert, and in another was the border with Amestris, which was well-guarded by the military. So, yeah, some people tried to run, but I don’t think they got very far.”

“How did people react?” Claudia asked.

“Once the news came in, everyone knew that they’d be dead in a week. It’s hard to explain what that’s like. It’s like… you’re on death row for the penalty of being born.”

“How old were you at the time? Do you remember how _Netanya_ responded?

“I was five.” Edward shook his head. “For four days everyone acted normal. They went to work, and I got sent to school. It was like an elaborate ruse- people wanted to pretend, because they didn’t have another choice. It’s not like dying of dehydration in the desert or getting shot in the back after being on the run for weeks would have been much better, so people created reasons to stay and pretended that nothing had changed. But then…”   

“Then?”

“Well, what would you do?” Edward asked. “If you knew with great certainty that you wouldn’t last the week, what would you do?” Edward paused. “Some people went crazy. Some tried to run anyway. Some prayed. Some hid their valuables, so that at least the military wouldn’t have them. Some just kept playing pretend. And some tried to arm themselves. There weren’t really many guns, but families had decorative swords, kitchen knives and gardening tools. Things like that. Most of the skilled fighters had already left for the warfront though, so the people who were left weren’t exactly… experienced in combat.”

“And how did your family react?” Claudia asked. Her voice was soothing, but she never removed her pen from the page.

“There were a lot of young kids in my family, so everyone tried really hard to act normal. But even if we were young, we knew that something was wrong even if we didn’t understand what it was. There’s one particular night I remember. The whole family gathered together in my grandparent’s home, and… and…”

Edward squeezed his eyes shut.

“And they were almost _too_ nice to us, you know? Like, they let us do anything we wanted. One of my cousins, Sakshi, had her birthday in two weeks, and… they let her open her presents early.” Edward took another deep breath, his eyes still closed.

“We also ate these sweet cookies called _Khalirim_. They’re made with dried pistachios, which were really hard to get during the War, but my grandmother had one more tin stashed away for a special occasion, so she baked those up and all of my cousins ate them happily. It felt like such a lucky day, because we got to eat _Khalirim,_ and not only that, they let us each as many as we wanted. No one made us go to sleep early or yelled at us for jumping on the expensive furniture or forced us to eat our vegetables. It felt like we all really lucked out. I mean, how could I have understood what was really happening? That it would be the last time I saw any of them again.”

At his words, Mustang looked physically pained and Riza’s eyes were glassy, like they could overflow with tears at any moment (but Winry knew they wouldn’t). Fuhrer Grumman listened carefully beside Riza, but he didn’t have the same emotional investment that everyone else here did.

Havoc fiddled with an unlit cigarette by the window until Breda knocked it out of his hand, and Abra stood beside them, Gilad sitting at her feet. Although Winry had known him to be a mischievous boy, he sat stone-faced, Abra’s hand on his shoulder.

Winry wondered if this brought back memories for Abra, Heridas, or the other Ishvalans.

“And, of course, when faced with the military, some people killed themselves,” Edward said. “You know, better die by their own hands than by the Amestrians.”

“Did you know anyone who committed suicide?” Claudia asked, looking up from her notes.

“Yes.” There was a pregnant pause. “You see, my aunt had already lost… a lot. Her husband -my mom’s brother- died early on in the War, and throughout the years of fighting, her three sons had all gone to fight too. The youngest was fourteen when he left. He didn’t see his sixteenth birthday. She was barely holding it together as it was. This tipped her over the edge.”  

Edward met Claudia’s sympathetic gaze.

“She hung herself. One of my cousins found the body.” Edward’s eyes unfocused again. “She never even got to have a proper funeral.”

“And yet, even in all of this destruction, you escaped with your immediate family. How’d you do it?”

“The only reason we were able to escape was because my father, my brother, and I could pass as Amestrian, so we didn’t draw as much suspicion. We left two days before the Amestrian military arrived. My father was able to procure a vehicle, and honestly, our survival came down to just a lot of luck. The rest of my family wasn’t so lucky.”

“How did your mother feel about leaving her parents and siblings behind in _Netanya_?” Claudia asked.

“How do you think?” Edward retorted before immediately calming. “She felt awful. I think that if my brother and I weren’t around, she would have refused to leave, but she wanted to take care of us. So we left most of our possessions and everyone we knew and drove to the closest Amestrian-Ishvalan border.”

“And how’d you make it over the border? It was well-guarded, wasn’t it?”

“It was, but we couldn’t fight our way through anyway,” Edward said. “That would just create a manhunt for us. No, we had to be allowed through, so we ended up driving right over the border.”

“And the guards just let you?”

“Not exactly,” Edward said. “My father… he explained to them that he was a researcher who’d gotten stuck in the middle of the war with his two sons. And that, since his wife had died in childbirth with his youngest, he had… _stolen_ an Ishvalan woman to be our nanny.”

“Slave labor?” Claudia asked.

“Yeah.” Edward’s face scrunched into itself for a moment, before he schooled it blank again. “They bought it. Why wouldn’t they? It probably wouldn’t occur to them that the blond researcher and the Ishvalan woman could be married.”

Claudia scribbled notes for a minute, her pen darting across the page at inhumane speeds.

“Your mother, did she keep Ishvalan traditions in your home after you moved to Amestris?”

“She did the best that she could,” Edward said. “But after we moved, it was hard. Although she tried to hide it from us, she was never the same, and it wasn’t long before she passed away.”

Claudia finished writing Edward’s words, and then flipped back to the beginning of what she’d written, eyes shooting from side to side, speed-reading what she had thus far. She asked a few follow-up questions, but the interview didn’t last much longer. Most of the important topics had already been covered the previous day.

But it was her last question that made Edward pause.

“After everything you’ve been through, after living in Ishval and Amestris, after returning back to Ishval to help the rebuilding process, do you consider yourself more Amestrian or Ishvalan?” she asked, her pen poised over her notepad. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. It’s a personal distinction, perhaps.”

“No, it’s fine,” Edward said. “I guess I consider myself both? I can’t just pick one side over the other. Yeah, I don’t look like your typical Ishvalan, but I’m not the only Amestrian-Ishvalan person out there. And even more than that, I think… many Ishvalans are like me: they lived in Amestris after the war and it changed us. We’re not the same as we were –we can’t be.

“Am I more Ishvalan or Amestrian? Making the world better than how you found it is a strong principle of the Ishvalan faith, and that’s what the Ishvalan Accords have been all about. I don’t think I could ever choose between the two sides of myself, but maybe that’s because I wasn’t raised so that they were at odds. They aren’t fighting for dominance in me. I have customs and heritage from both, and that’s just who I am.”

Silence reigned in the lounge as Claudia finished transferring his words onto the page. Edward’s eyes found Winry’s for the first time, and they shared a smile. Then, Winry pointed towards Alphonse, who’d gotten up at some point in the interview and had joined Abra across the room, and was now silently sobbing into her shoulder.  

“You’ve given me more than enough to work with. Thank you, dear, it’s been an absolute pleasure,” Claudia said, leaning in and kissing both of his cheeks with puckered lips. Edward smiled and thanked her, but the first moment it was socially permissible, Edward raced to embrace Alphonse, scooping his shaking form into his arms in a rare display of physical affection. Al squeezed Edward tightly, and they all could hear his dull muted cries into Edward’s shirt.

His weren’t the only wet eyes in the room, but most everyone else was more practiced at hiding their tears. Although Winry had choked back her emotions a few times while Edward was speaking, watching Alphonse cry into Edward’s arms somehow made the waterworks pour.

When Edward glanced back at her with a bemused expression over Al’s tears, his eyes widened when he found her crying as well. She shrugged, wiping away stray tears, but as they continued to fall, Winry gave up. Instead, she leaped forward and embraced the two brothers, like she’d done hundreds of times.  

They’d been to hell and back, but that nightmare was finally over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dying for more Ishvalan AUs? Check out the Ishvalan AU one-shot I posted last week: Project Rainbow. It’s a much darker take on the question of what would happen if the Elrics were Ishvalan. 
> 
> *Shameless plug over* 
> 
> Only one chapter left! 
> 
> The last chapter’s POV will be… drum roll please… Riza Hawkeye! Because, of course. 
> 
> Until next Tuesday…


	17. Riza Hawkeye III

If she had to smile for any more pictures, Riza Hawkeye was going to shoot someone.

Getting the Ishvalan Accords passed in Parliament required good publicity, but that didn’t mean she had to enjoy it.

The only person who looked more uncomfortable than Riza was Grand Cleric Heridas, though he had a better excuse than just a sheer distaste for politicians and publicity. The official story of the Accords would not include the _minor_ detail that a key member of the Ishvalan delegation was the alchemist killer, Scar (for obvious reasons), so Heridas remained hidden in the back of the photographs with enough shadows to keep his x-shaped discoloration undetected by the camera. It was risky, but he’d done more to ensure the reconstruction of Ishval than the random assortment of Amestrian officials that the Fuhrer had brought in, who were tasked with the _extremely_ laborious job of pretending they’d done something of value.

(Riza really didn’t like politicians.)

Of course, they didn’t know the real truth about Scar either. They’d been fed the tale that “Scar” had never been guilty at all; rather, he was an undercover Amestrian agent, working as a ploy to lure out the “real” killer. Although it sounded far-fetched to Riza’s ears, Miles had been sure that they’d accept it easily.

“It’s the story they want to hear,” Miles had said. “They won’t ask any questions, because they’ll be so pleased that they were important enough to be trusted with the ‘truth.’”

But, not surprisingly, Heridas hadn’t been pleased by this development.

“I’m not a liar,” he’d hissed at Miles.

“I’m not saying you are, but-”

“I’m not some dancing puppet on the Amestrian government’s strings!”

The only person who’d been able to talk him down was Elder Shan, who’d been smart enough to wait until Heridas had finished ranting to speak.

“The truth always prevails,” she’d said, “but this world is not ready for such shades of gray. One day, maybe when we’re all long dead, someone will put the pieces together. That Grand Cleric Heridas, a man instrumental in the Ishvalan Accords, is the same man as the alchemist killer, Scar. And on that day, the world will realize that the story is much more complicated than it seemed. That, as much as we want to divide the world into good and evil, the world defies simplicity. Humanity defies simplicity. This is important to remember, but our world of today, a world still raw with the recent pain of the War, cannot understand that complexity. Not yet.”

Heridas had grumbled but complied.

Between Claudia Summers trying to poke her nose into every story she could sniff out and the Amestrian officials grumbling that the military had been given too much leeway in the Accords, Riza was relieved that the ordeal was nearly finished. She was looking forward to receiving an excited greeting from Black Hayate, sleeping in her own bed, and falling back into her old routines.

“It’s really over,” Havoc said, stretching out his knees with an ominous cracking noise, as Mustang’s unit assembled for the last time in Mustang’s room. With the final treaty signed that morning, they would have one free day before the train left first thing on Friday.

“Not really,” Mustang said. “The treaty still has to pass through the Parliament. And then it has to be accepted by the Amestrian and Ishvalan publics.”

“And then the real work begins,” Hawkeye said, tilting her head. “Don’t forget that all of these plans we’re making have to be carried out. The Ishvalan councils have to be formed and the communication network has to be assembled and-”

“Argh! Don’t make me think about it yet, sir!” Havoc said, covering his ears with his hands.

“Things aren’t all bad though,” Breda said, glancing back at Mustang. “You’re out of your wheelchair, boss. Isn’t that something?”

“Compared with the Ishvalan Accords, my own injury-” Mustang began, but Breda rolled his eyes and Hawkeye ignored him, because Mustang’s tentative clean bill of health had been something of a miracle and listening to him discount it made Riza want to pistol-whip him. He still wore bandages beneath his clothing, and he’d need to be examined upon their return to Central, but the doctor was optimistic that Mustang would be completely recovered over the next few months.

A miracle, it certainly was. Regardless of whatever nonsense Mustang spouted.

For the first time since the Amestrians had arrived, there weren’t meetings or photo sessions to attend, so given the nature of their free day, they’d switched to non-military dress, and even Riza could admit that it was liberating to be free of her uniform’s symbolic confines, if only for their quiet day in Kedesh.

But a quiet day they wouldn’t get, because while they nibbled on breakfast, Mustang didn’t take a bite. Considering he usually had the appetite of a small country, Riza knew that something was wrong.

And she found out a few minutes later, when Mustang turned towards the Elrics, took a deep breath, and asked, “Would you allow me to visit the _Zikkaron_? And pay my respects to your family.” Edward choked on his breakfast, but Mustang pressed forward. “I understand why this would be highly disrespectful and unlawful and a horrible idea-”

“Sure,” Alphonse said, and Edward kicked him under the table. “What?”

“If you don’t want us to go, I completely understand,” Mustang said.

“No,” Edward said with a grimace, as though his words even surprised himself. “You just surprised me, that’s all. You do know that our _mikdash,_ our family’s monument, is gone though, right? There’s nothing but dirt and sand left.”

“I know,” Mustang said. “But if you’ll allow me, I’d like to… pay my respects.”

“I think all of us would,” Hawkeye said, gesturing around to Havoc and Breda, who both nodded vigorously.

Heridas, in typical fashion, was eavesdropping, and as soon as the Elric brothers acquiesced, he insisted on accompanying them. Major Miles nodded, and suddenly that meant that he was joining as well.  

Elder Vikram, who’d spluttered on and on about how horribly rude it was, got roped into joining too, thanks to Elder Shan.

And as soon as Abra overheard their plans, she leaned over the countertop, “I know you were planning on inviting me, weren’t you?”

What had been an intimate group just a few minutes before had ballooned into the majority of the Ishvalan Accords delegation.

And before they left, Edward bolted upstairs, promising he’d be right back. Which he was, but he’d returned with the last member of the delegation, Ariyn Fitzgerald.

She’d been asleep when Riza had left their room an hour ago, and from her groggy gait and unkempt hair, she’d apparently awoken only a few minutes prior. She rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn, before grabbing a pastry from the side table.

The delegation gawked at Ariyn’s presence, but no one said anything. Alphonse just furrowed his brows towards his brother, and Edward just shrugged.  

“What are we waiting for?” Ariyn asked, seemingly unaware of the mass scrutiny.

“No one,” Elder Shan said, hobbling towards the door. “Let’s go.”

 “We’ll be going to the market first to get flowers,” Abra informed the Amestrians.

“Is that traditional?” Hawkeye asked.

“Extremely,” Abra said. “Ishvalans never memorialize the dead without flowers. It’s just not done.”

“It’s also frowned upon to allow other Ishvalans inside the _Zikkaron,_ never mind Amestrians,” Elder Vikram said, scurrying alongside the group. “It’s disrespectful.”

“If you don’t want to come inside, you don’t have to,” Elder Shan said. “But if you must know, I think it’s absurd that we shouldn’t visit an Ishvalan memorial just because we are not members of an ancient line. In my eyes, forgetting the dead is more disrespectful.”

“It’s not the way things are done!”

“Who is left to remember these families, Vikram? Their numbers are dwindling and unless you want all of those teachings to be lost, we have to be willing to make a few changes. Would you rather cling to the old ways and die out, or progress and endure?”

Elder Vikram muttered to himself but kept pace.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Edward said, leaning slightly into Winry as he spoke. “The _Zikkaron_ is a historical landmark, not some forbidden shrine. Especially ‘cause I haven’t heard of any other ancient families since I got here. Do you know if there are others left?”

“I’ve heard nothing more than rumors,” Elder Shan said. When Edward sighed, she patted him on the back. “Don’t be impatient. It’s just the beginning of this next chapter of Ishval. You never know what’s in store.”

As they pressed further into Kedesh and into the market, it became too difficult to have any conversation, their whole focus dedicated to ducking and avoiding and squeezing between people. Elder Shan avoided the crowds easily, even with her hunched back and cane.

“Over here!” Edward shouted, and they were able to follow his voice towards a crooked flower stand, cobbled together from mismatching wooden segments. Manning the booth was a grinning Madam Jayanti, her wide smile showcasing her missing teeth.

“The most beautiful flowers in all of Kedesh,” Edward said, and Jayanti leaned over the stall to sweep him, Alphonse, and Winry into a tight embrace.

And then Edward and Madam Jayanti began haggling on the price of their exchange. Well, that was what Hawkeye had first assumed. The dialogue was entirely in Ishvalan, so it was impossible to tell. Though Riza began suspecting that they weren’t exactly haggling when Madam Jayanti refused to accept the money Edward was pressing into her hands.

Eventually, Edward gave in and pocketed the money, and Madam Jayanti pointed at the farthest basket. Unlike the multi-colored bouquets surrounding them, that basket only held flowers as white as the wispy clouds above them.

“You can each take one,” Edward said.

“We can pay-” Mustang began.

“Trust me,” Edward said, shaking his head. “Do NOT get her started again.”

“These are _Kemeli_ flowers,” Elder Shan supplied as she plucked the topmost one from the basket. “They represent mourning.”

The _Kemeli_ flower felt heavy in Riza’s hand, and yet she feared that its delicate petals would fly away in the faintest wind. All chatter among the group had silenced, and as they arrived at the gates of the _Zikkaron,_ Edward spun back towards them.

“You can cover your head if you want,” he said. He and the other Ishvalans had already done so, and Winry and Alphonse immediately followed. Major Miles paused, and then slid a cap over his hair.

“Why?” Breda asked, though he was already making effort to cover his head as well.

“It’s about respect for the dead,” Heridas said. “That’s the short answer. Do you want to hear the longer one?”

Breda nodded, and while Heridas explained the symbolic relationship between the top of someone’s head, piety, and everyone’s eventual mortality, Riza loosened the scarf around her neck and threw it atop her hair, fastening it behind her neck.

Heridas’s answer was extremely detailed, so he continued lecturing as they entered through the gates and strode through the _Zikkaron_ itself. Hawkeye felt more nervous than she expected, though she didn’t quite know what she feared. It wasn’t as though apparitions of Edward’s family would appear and condemn the murderers among them, but as she passed each monument, she wondered if she’d killed anyone from those families. And given Mustang’s grimace beside her, he felt the weight of his sins too.

When Edward stopped, the rest of the group fell in line behind him, gathering around a patch of sand, smooth and empty. The rubble had been cleared, as had Gustav’s graffiti.

No one said anything.

Edward carefully placed his flower onto the ground, his shoulders trembling. Alphonse and Winry stepped beside Edward and together they led the group through the traditional greeting.

“First, three steps forward,” Edward said slowly, and everyone obeyed his instructions. Although the Ishvalans were surely familiar with the remembrances for the dead, they completed it in sync with the Amestrians. “Two steps back.”

Riza had trouble imagining the brothers in a large family setting. For as long as she’d known them, they’d isolated themselves, choosing to rely only on each other, and yet, Edward and Alphonse had once just been another set of _Vaidya_ siblings.

“One step forward.”

Riza pictured the _Vaidya_ family as loud and boisterous, so different from the solemn household where she’d been raised. She imagined that they’d constantly interfere with everyone else’s business, but if any of them were threatened, they’d protect their own with fierce loyalty. A few probably had Edward’s temper, but didn’t Al’s sweet demeanor have to come from somewhere too?

“Bow.”

Riza had no right to be here, to pray for lives she would have taken had she been given the chance.

“Now the same in reverse, so three steps backward.”

She followed his words in a haze, and when he concluded with a small explanation about how the movements symbolized infinity, she barely heard it. Edward and Alphonse’s family would never know the brave, kind, compassionate, loyal, thoughtful men that they’d become. How they’d saved the world and risked everything for the good of Amestris. It was an obscene cruelty that Riza would come to know the Elrics better than their own family.

Edward and Alphonse kneeled before the empty plot and then rose together.   

 “We’ll be outside,” Alphonse said. “Take your time.”

And then they were gone.

Winry kneeled first, placing her flower atop the Elrics’ and bowing her head. This would be the family that she’d marry into, whenever that day came. Riza wondered whether they would have approved of her. Although it felt wrong to project her own opinions, Riza couldn’t imagine anyone _not_ liking Winry.

Winry didn’t stay long, and the Ishvalans followed after. The Elders first, though they couldn’t properly kneel, so they just bowed their heads and dropped their _Kemeli_ flowers onto the ground, already creating a small mound of white against the sand.

Of the Ishvalans, Heridas spent the longest time in front of the plot, his neck pointed downward, his lips moving without sound.

And then only the Amestrians remained.

Ariyn stepped forward first, laying her flower down, pausing for a moment’s reflection, and then slipping away.

Then Havoc, and then Breda, and finally, it was just Mustang and Riza left. They kneeled in front of the empty patch of sand together, their knees sinking into the hole left by the others’ weight.

“I could do this for decades and still not make a dent in the families I killed, the children I killed,” Mustang said, his voice monotone. “I have no right to be here- I could have killed them.”

“Maybe Edward is right,” Hawkeye said. “Maybe there are questions you don’t want the answers to.”

“There’s a difference between wanting and needing,” Mustang said, before shaking his head. “But maybe he’s right, maybe it doesn’t matter. I killed people like them, and if I’d have crossed paths with them, I would have killed them.”

“We were allowed inside the _Zikkaron_ out of Edward and Alphonse’s generosity,” Hawkeye said firmly. “Please don’t make it all about you, sir.”

It was a hypocritical thing to say, and they both knew it.

“It’s not raining today,” he said.

“We’re in Ishval, sir. Of course it’s not raining.”

“When I stood in front of Maes’ grave, it rained, but there’s no rain today. What does that say about me?” 

“You don’t know them,” she said, despite her own insecurities over the same question. “They’re faceless to you. Kill one man and hold his face forever. Kill countless and they disappear.” She draped her hand over his shoulder. “It’s okay that you mourned for Hughes.”

Riza rose and helped Mustang do the same. (He needed the assistance due to his bullet wound, though he wouldn’t have asked for it.) They shared one last moment in front of the _Vaidya_ plot, before dropping their flowers onto the heap. Even if they were just flowers, it felt good to leave the empty sand full of life somehow.

They meandered back through the _Zikkaron,_ passing gaudy displays of longevity, and yet all Riza could think of was the inevitability of finality, the inevitability of mortality.

“Roy, if you could do it all again, would you join the military? Because… if we feel all of this regret, does it mean anything if we’d do it all over again?”

Mustang stopped walking, his dark eyes steely, “You know that I hate dealing in ‘what ifs,’ but do you know why?”

Riza shook her head.

“Because if I could go back and do it all again, I would change everything. When I look back, I know why I made the decisions I did, and they always felt like the right ones at the time: join the military to help people, serve in Ishval because it was my duty, kill because the alternative was be killed, rise up the ranks of the military to protect the people I cared about. But nothing turned out like how I’d planned. I was a naïve fool.”

Mustang hesitated, and Riza stepped towards him.

“Your father was right,” he said. “When I look back, the moment everything fell apart was the second that I left you and joined the military.”

“Sir-”

“Maybe that’s wrong of me to say,” he said, diverting his eyes towards the sky. “We did save all of Amestris from Fuhrer Bradley and the homunculi, and after everything we’ve accomplished, I’m now a general- just a stone’s throw from becoming Fuhrer. But if I could do it again, I’d leave Amestris to its own devices and… run away with you. Before I ever joined the military academy. If… um… if you would have had me, that is.”

“Sir… Roy…”

Roy lowered his head and began strolling towards the main gate, walking for a few paces before realizing that Riza was still frozen.

“Riza?”

“You can’t just say something like that and act nonchalant,” she said, her voice level only from her many years of practiced self-control.  

“I know,” Mustang said, turning back to her. “But it’s all hypothetical, which means I can be as selfish as I want to be. Because it’s too late now, and that world… it’s a world that can never be. You know that as well as I do, Riza.”

“I do,” she said. “But that’s not what I meant and you know it. If you could do it all over again, would you really-”

“I’d choose you,” he said, wringing his hands. “I know that it makes me weak, I know. I _am_ weak. With a second chance I could save so many lives and-”

“Roy…”

“Please, don’t give me that look, Riza. We both know that you’ve always been the stronger one.”

He began marching towards the exit again with long strides, but as Riza ran to catch up, he slowed.

“For what it’s worth, Roy, I’ve always chosen you.”

“And do you regret that?” he asked, his shoulders visibly tensing. 

“Roy…”

“I mean it, Riza. I want to know if you regret it. Following me all this time. Following me into the military, into Ishval.”

The wind brushed the sand beneath their feet and echoed through the stone monuments, but it was a warm breeze, bringing no relief from the sweltering heat.

“That’s not a yes or no question, Roy,” she said. “I made the best choice I could have at the time. I didn’t know anything of the world except for you. I didn’t know what I was getting into, and once I got to Ishval, I just thought that if I got up each morning and did my duty, I’d go home and the horrors would finally be over. But I was a fool, and the horrors never leave you.”

She didn’t want to look at Mustang’s reaction, and though their steps remained in time with each other, they’d both slowed.

“If I had to do it again,” she said, “I wouldn’t have followed you to war.”

Mustang gulped.

“If you’d asked me that same question five years ago, I don’t know if I would have said the same,” she continued, her eyes finally finding his. “But now I know.”

“So you do regret it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, unable to hide the bite from his words.

“Roy, when I agreed to shoot you if you ever strayed from the right path, I meant it. I still mean it. But I strayed too. I did things…” She shook her head. “I destroyed lives, and… I destroyed myself to follow you and the ideals you promised me. If I could fix my mistakes, I wouldn’t have ever strayed… ideally, _we_ would never have strayed.”

She didn’t know why the honesty poured from her lips on that day. The _Zikkaron_ was a holy place, and perhaps, this was her prayer. Roy had always been her salvation more than any deity, but it was just as deceitful to forget that he was as imperfect as she was.

“And, Roy, for what it’s worth,” she said, as the gate loomed ahead. An easy escape once she let the final truth fall into the empty air between them. “Even knowing everything I know now, if you had asked, I would have run away with you too.”

Riza slipped through the gate before he could respond, and she immersed herself into the waiting crowd of Amestrians and Ishvalans. She felt heavy and guilty, after defiling that sacred place with her sins.

As they returned back to the inn, everyone separated, but Riza needed something to do with her hands to keep her errant thoughts away, so she fled to her room and packed up her meager belongings. But packing didn’t take much time, so that distraction was fleeting.

She couldn’t imagine being alone with her thoughts yet, so she decided to seek out Abra for some menial task. But that plan was abandoned when she found Mustang sitting in the lounge alone, nursing a glass of water.

“Hey Riza,” he said.

“ _General,”_ she said pointedly. “We’re in public.”

“There’s no one around,” he said with a soft smile. “Don’t worry.”

“You know I can’t help it,” she said, easing into the seat next to him.

For a moment, Riza feared that it would be awkward. After all, hadn’t they just admitted that they’d have chosen to be lovers in another life? But as they’d always done, they fell into a natural conversation, reviewing a few of the newest developments from Central.

“Where are Havoc and Breda?” she asked when their discussion had lulled.

“They’re at the market, buying odds and ends as gifts,” he said with a shrug. “They’re gonna be extorted out of their minds. You know…” He paused for dramatic effect. “I think Havoc’s getting something for Rebecca Catalina.”

“That’s nice.”

“Really? That’s all I get,” Mustang said, a shadow of a pout hovering on his lips. “But I thought that was the latest gossip.”

“You’re not a girl, Roy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve had an inkling for months. And they’ve been making googly eyes at each other for even longer than that.”

“She’s a First Lieutenant now, isn’t she?” Mustang asked, and Riza nodded.

“They fit well together.”

“Yeah.”

Havoc and Breda chose this moment to burst into the inn, armed with brightly colored packages. They fought for Riza and Mustang’s attention, interrogating them over which one had bought the better gifts, probably for some stupid bet that they’d made. During the chaos, Riza and Mustang shared bemused smiles, but they played along.

At some point, they realized how late it was getting and the boys left to go pack, which left Riza alone.

But not for long. Not thirty seconds later, Abra skidded through the lounge, jumping over furniture and yelling over her shoulder, “Stir the big pot in the corner! I’ll be right back!”

Riza didn’t know what was going on, though she imagined it had something to do with Abra’s young helper getting into mischief. So she followed her instructions until Abra returned red-faced.    

“That boy will be the death of me,” she said, throwing her hands on her hips. “So… you must be looking forward to going home then, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Riza said, before immediately backtracking, “not that you haven’t been a wonderful host, of course.”

“Don’t worry,” Abra said. “I understand. Home is… special.”

“I live in an apartment complex,” Riza said. “Nothing too exciting.”

“I’m sure, dear,” Abra said, handing Riza a tomato to dice. Hawkeye sliced through it with even strokes, the simple task a perfect distraction.

“It’s a pity though,” Abra said, “I got to see Edward and Winry uncover their true feelings for each other, but I never got to see you and your general get together.”

Riza’s hand slipped, and she nearly cut herself.

“Easy there,” Abra said. “No need for that. I was just observing.”

“General Mustang and I are just…” Hawkeye trailed off. They were just what? What could she say? Mustang had just confessed that if he could do it all again, he would have chosen her over his career. It was meaningless now, obviously. They’d committed too many atrocities and had gone too far on their path to righting them. The only reason he could confess something like that was _because_ it was so impossible.

And yet, it was almost crueler to know what could have been. It was too easy to imagine a life waking up beside him every morning, their children still sleeping down the hall.

It was more painful to realize how close that reality could have been. 

As much as she loved Rebecca, she couldn’t talk to her about this. Rebecca had never understood Riza’s complex relationship with Mustang, preferring to take Mustang’s skirt-chasing idiot persona as face value.

Which was why Riza found herself spilling her thoughts to Abra. And when Riza finally finished, Abra put her spoon down, covered her pot with a misshapen lid, and gave Riza the biggest hug she could ever remember receiving.

“You poor thing,” Abra said, rubbing circles into her back. Riza froze, before easing into the embrace and breathing in the spices deposited in Abra’s hair.

By the time they separated, Abra’s pot bubbled dangerously over its lid, but Abra didn’t tend to it.

“Regret is the worst feeling in the world,” Abra said. “You look back and wish you could have done things differently. You pour over your decisions and hope that something will change, but it never does. Regret is the present loathing of your past self, but it doesn’t help you now.”

Abra returned to her stew and ladled out a portion into a wooden bowl, before handing it to Riza.

“Eat it. You’ll feel better.”

Even though food was the last thing on her mind, Riza took a sip. The warmth spread from her throat to her toes instantly, and the spice lit up her mouth.

“Good, right?” Abra asked, and Riza nodded.

“Just listen to an old woman’s words, all right? The horrible thing about regret is that it makes you feel like you ruined your chance. Something that was possible once is impossible now, because your thoughts are tinged with the way things could have been. But-”

“I think I know where you’re going with this, and I don’t really-”

“Just listen, okay?” Abra said, and Riza nodded, taking another spoonful of the stew. “I would give anything for more time with my late husband. He was… everything to me. He made me laugh, and even though I talked for hours, he’d always listen to everything.” Abra leaned forward, and in the close proximity, Riza could see the glassy sheen clouding her red eyes. “He’s been dead for many, many years, but I think of him often. He loved my cooking, you know. Would always say that food was the best medicine. So much of what I do, of who I am, was influenced by him.”

Abra blinked rapidly, so Riza offered her a napkin to dry her eyes. But Abra just laughed it off.

“It’s that time of year again, I’m afraid,” she said, wiping an errant tear away with her finger. “My point is that I would give anything to have more time with him. To hear his laughter again or to hold his hand. Every moment that you spend with the people you love is precious. It’s truly a gift. We are all better for having loved, and the world is better for having more love in it.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Madam, but we’re not in a position-”

“All of those regrets you and your general spoke about, all of those regrets you just shared with me, in twenty years you’ll look back and have those same regrets. You’ll realize that there was nothing holding you back except for your own fears. You’ll look back and wish you could have had more time together, but even then, you still won’t do anything to translate your regret into action because by then it’ll be ‘too late.’ Just like what you’re saying now. There is no such thing as too late, Riza.”

It was far more complicated than that. They had obligations now. To Ishval, to the Amestrian military, to their subordinates, to each other. Maybe they could have run off with each other once, but they couldn’t anymore.

“I know you mean well, but you know that I can’t- we can’t-”

“I know nothing,” Abra said, her signature smirk returning to her lips. “The only thing I know is the human heart. I _was_ a matchmaker after all. Instead of looking back, just twist your perspective. Look forward: if you died tomorrow, what would your biggest regret be?” Abra returned to the stew, giving it a final few stirs. “I’ve said my piece. Do with it what you will.”

And that was that.

All of the Amestrians were leaving tomorrow, except for Alphonse, Edward, and Winry, who weren’t taking their train for a few more days. (Claudia Summers’ article would likely create quite a stir in both Amestris and Ishval, so it would be best to have them lay low in the countryside for the next few weeks.) 

The Fuhrer had agreed to officially pardon Edward for his “crime” of serving as an Ishvalan State Alchemist, so at least they didn’t have to worry about a criminal investigation. Their last night passed quickly in their good spirits, and it was with little recollection of the food and festivities that they awoke, thanks mostly due to the extensive selection of alcohol Abra had provided.

So it was with little fanfare that the Amestrians carried their belongings to the waiting train. They were accompanied to the station by the remaining members of the delegation, and as Riza took her last glance towards the low Kedeshian skyline, she found herself looking forward to her next visit. (Even though she’d probably be digging sand out of her belongings for the next six months.)

“Will you remain in Kedesh?” Hawkeye asked Scar, as she slung her luggage over her shoulder.

“For the moment,” he said. “But as Kedesh develops, I’d like to assist other Ishvalan cities, if I can.”  

“Take care of yourself, Cleric Heridas” she said.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Mustang whispering into Major Miles’ ear.

“Calm down, Mustang!” Miles shouted, jumping back. “I was telling you the truth! General Armstrong _doesn’t_ want to become Fuhrer. Ignore everything she tells you.” Miles squirmed. “Er, don’t tell her I said any of this.”

“My lips are sealed.”

After a round of goodbyes, they boarded the train and much as they had on the way down, Riza, Mustang, Breda, and Havoc all sat together. The train was mostly empty so they could have each had their own compartment, but it was homier when it was the four of them.

“Damn, Fuery is gonna wish he’d come when he hears all of the stories,” Havoc said, conspiratorially rubbing his hands together.

“You mean nearly getting killed by an ex-military man and bickering non-stop over the wording of a treaty?” Breda said, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure he’ll be really jealous.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re not selling it well,” Havoc said, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s all about how you spin the story.”

Claudia Summers dropped in a few minutes later, carrying a few questions about Edward, but they were all simple enough that Riza suspected that she only visited their cabin to flirt with Mustang. But her coy smiles and flagrant abuse of endearments didn’t bother Riza.

Because it wasn’t any of her business.

Riza decided that even if Abra was right about them, it didn’t matter. She was too much of a coward to bring it up again with Mustang, and it wasn’t worth risking their current relationship. She’d been fine for this many years; she was sure that after she put the Ishvalan Accords far enough behind her, even her fluttering heart would calm again.

The endless desert gave way to rolling grass, and finally to clustered buildings as they arrived in Central, but it didn’t feel like it was really over until she returned to her apartment. She unlocked her front door and found a layer of dust, but underneath it, was her old life. Much like when she’d returned to Central after the Promised Day, she felt different, like she’d outgrown her old place, but she knew that discomfort would go away with time.

And it did.

Hawkeye fell back into her normal routine with practiced ease. The only memorable day was when Claudia’s article about Edward was released, and their office was inundated with soldiers asking about its veracity.

“ _The_ Fullmetal Alchemist? Ishvalan? Couldn’t be!”

“But this is in the _Central Times_. It’s not a piece of trash like the _Southern Courant_.”

“Ishvalan? But he’s an alchemist?”

“He doesn’t look very Ishvalan-”

“EVERYBODY OUT!” Hawkeye yelled, cocking her gun. The gossiping soldiers didn’t need to be told twice and retreated with the small scraps of their dignity left.

“Nicely done!” Havoc said and fist pumped behind his desk.

Past the initial surprise of the article, she saw that Claudia’s piece was doing what they’d wanted: opening the minds of Amestrians and putting a familiar, friendly face on the public image of Ishval. Hawkeye had read the article, of course, and she wasn’t surprised to find it compelling, evocative, and well-written.

Mustang was sure to send Claudia the biggest bouquet he could find, though she’d been given an incredible story to start off with. Alongside the article was a black and white picture of Edward in his Ishvalan attire, and it made her feel old. Proud, obviously. But he looked so grown-up in the picture.

And soon, without her realizing it, the days turned into months.

Edward Elric had become an even bigger celebrity than he’d been as the Fullmetal Alchemist, and he’d done two follow-up interviews with Claudia Summers, both editions of the _Central Times_ completely selling out _._ Edward and Winry were officially engaged now, though Riza didn’t hear from Winry as often as she used to because they were still in Ishval. Winry had begun touring the northern Ishvalan countryside to provide automail assistance, and Alphonse had recently departed for Xing, vowing to return with an advanced knowledge of alkahestry. She didn’t know much about the art of alkahestry, but when he’d visited Central before he’d left, he’d seemed really excited, saying that it could revolutionize Amestrian medicine.

On some days, Abra’s words would echo in her mind, that there was no such thing as too late, and on those days, Riza’s gaze would linger on Mustang, and she’d imagine the life that they’d never have. But luckily, she didn’t have the time to dwell on it.

After they’d arrived back from Ishval, long nights at Central Command were typical for weeks, whittling through the piles of paperwork accrued over their long absence. So on one such night, after everyone in the office had gone home but Roy and Riza, they carried their respective paperwork to a common table, at least to come out from behind their desks.

They sat down next to each other and worked silently.

At least she was. Roy had dozed off again and was drooling onto his hand. Lovely. But she didn’t have the heart to wake him up. He’d been working so tirelessly since they’d returned to Central that even she couldn’t complain.

Sometime after midnight, he jumped up, his hands automatically reaching out for his gloves (which were back on his desk). His eyes darted around the room, his breathing heavy, but after a moment, he processed where he was and returned to his chair with a sigh.

“Bad dream, sir?” she said, not looking up from her paperwork.

“Don’t need to call me sir- no one’s here,” he muttered, probably more out of habit than cognizance. His eyes were still unfocussed, lost in his dream.

“Bad dream, Roy?”

He nodded and poured himself a cup of coffee. She didn’t ask about the dream, but when she’d nearly finished her workload for the night, she noticed that he hadn’t made a dent in his. He sat unmoving, gripping his now cold cup of coffee.

“Roy?”

“I was in Ishval, and then Edward was there,” he said, his voice shaking. “And I killed him. Burned him alive. I didn’t even _hesitate._ I just followed orders and snapped my fingers.”

“Roy…”

“And then Alphonse was there,” Mustang said, suddenly swirling his coffee into a mini frenzy inside his cup. “And he tried to cradle the body but it just turned to ash, and then I killed him too. I can still smell it. I can still smell the charring of his flesh.”

“It was just a dream, Roy,” she said.

“But it’s not! If they hadn’t left _Netanya_ , it would be reality!” His eyes flashed, and he slammed his fists onto the table, shaking the contents in his cup. “The man who did all of those horrible things in Ishval… is me. That’s still who I am inside.

“There’s no difference between General Mustang and the mass murderer in Ishval,” Mustang whispered, bowing his head low. “I… I could do it again.”

There was something about the nighttime that loosened lips, and it was only the late hour that could coax such a confession out of him.

“There’s at least one difference I can think of,” she said, and his eyes darted to hers. “You have me.”

Mustang didn’t say anything, but Riza didn’t elaborate, returning to her work, knowing that he’d interrupt her if he wanted to continue. 

Which he did only a few minutes later.

“Do I really have you?”

“If you go off the right path, I will shoot you.” she said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t have that before. I won’t ever let you become that person again.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he said, his voice small, and as he hunched over, he bore little resemblance to the façade that General Mustang always projected to the world. But it had never fooled her; she’d known him before he’d created that persona.  

“Then, what are you asking?” she said. “You know I’d follow you into hell, Roy.”

He’d never needed prompting before, so she knew that if he wanted to talk, he would. But he said nothing, and they returned to their work. Riza finished her stack quickly and grabbed about half of the remaining papers from Mustang’s pile.

They finished around the same time, bleary-eyed and exhausted, but glad to be done. Filing all of it could wait until tomorrow, so they packed up and walked through the hallways of Central Command side by side. No one was around to see them break military protocol, though it didn’t stop her from worrying.

“The Ishvalan Accords is getting put up to a vote in Parliament today,” Mustang said, all evidence of his earlier nightmare hidden.  

“I know, sir,” she said. “It seems Representative Fitzgerald has gotten the necessary votes.”

“Another step forward,” Mustang said. “We did it. We actually did it.”

Their shoes clicked on the tile floors, and a glimmer of sunrise peaked through the nearest window. This was hardly the first time she’d seen the sunrise begin at Central Command, but it meant that she’d only get a few hours of sleep before she’d have to return.  

“Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“If you died tomorrow, what would you regret not doing?” she asked.

“Huh?”

Out of context, it didn’t make much sense, so Riza explained how Abra had brought it up on their last day in Ishval and since then, it had been rattling around inside her brain.

“Hm,” Mustang said. “That’s a good question. What’s yours, Riza?”

In an uncharacteristic move of poor planning, she hadn’t expected to have the question turned around on her.

“Well, Abra told me about how much she loved her husband,” Riza began, completely side-stepping the question, “and that she’d give anything to have more time with him. She said that every moment you spend with the people you love is precious and that there’s no such thing as too late.”

They stepped outside of Central Command, the brewing light too weak to pierce the darkness that still hung over Central.

“Abra urged me to spend time with the man I loved, because you can’t take tomorrow for granted. It was amazing to me, because she looked at my life and didn’t see all of the wasted yesterdays; she chose to see the possible tomorrows.”

They were nearly upon the stoplight where they’d have to part ways to their respective apartments, but once they stepped onto the curb, neither moved. They both seemed to sense that the moment wasn’t over yet.

“Riza? Did you meet someone? Are you quitting?” Mustang asked.

“What? No! I’m… I’m…” she trailed off and gathered her courage. “I’m confessing, dammit!”

She peaked a look at Mustang’s face and was pleased to find him shell-shocked.

“C-c-confessing?” he asked.

“Look, I know,” Riza said, letting her eyes wander his face freely, taking in every detail in case he threw her out after this. “I know. There’s Ishval. And the military. And getting you to the top. Those are the most important things to both of us. I’m not forgetting about them, but Abra was right.” Riza sighed. “If I died tomorrow and I never told you how I felt, I’d regret that forever. Maybe you already knew. Maybe we’ve always just ignored it because we thought it was impossible and wrong and that we shouldn’t ever be happy. But… some things need to be said aloud, Roy.”

Roy’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything.

“I know all of the reasons that we can’t be together,” Riza continued, “and they make sense logically. I know. What we’ve been accomplishing is far more important than the lives of two people who don’t deserve happiness, but… from the moment I stood by your side and we watched the sun rise from my neighbor’s hill underneath that aging oak tree, you’ve had my heart.”

“Riza? Do you mean that?” he asked softly, taking a step towards her.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” she said. “And I know it doesn’t change anything, but-”

“But?” He closed the gap between them.

“But I had to say it,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I’ve been thinking too,” he said. “I keep thinking back to the _Zikkaron._ The what ifs. When I look back-”

“Shut up, Roy,” Riza said breathlessly. “We’re looking forward now. Like the Ishvalan Accords.” They were close enough that she could feel his chest rising and falling beneath his uniform.

“We don’t deserve happiness, Riza,” he said, his eyes glancing down to her lips. “But I think I’ve realized that it’s not something you can choose.”

“Choosing to be miserable isn’t penance.”

“We don’t deserve this,” he murmured.

“We don’t.”

But that didn’t stop their lips from meeting.

The Ishvalan Accords passed the very next day in Parliament.

It wasn’t over. They knew that the hardest work was still to come. Ishval was decimated by war, and its culture, land, and people all carried the battle scars. The ramifications would echo for generations, but somehow, it felt like a new chapter was beginning.

Ishval was being rebuilt one stone at a time. Winry and Edward were getting married. Alphonse was travelling through Xing. Havoc was getting ready to pop the question to Rebecca. And Riza…

There wasn’t any more room in Riza’s heart for regret. The things she’d done… the things that the military had done…

She’d always taken full responsibility for her part in the atrocities.

But there was no righteousness in self-hatred and no justice in self-flagellation. Her misery was no gift to the lives she’d destroyed. And the loathing that she’d cloaked herself in had done nothing but embitter her mind to the suffering of her fellow man.

Edward _was_ right, not that she or Roy would admit it to his face. They _had_ been pushing for a democracy for the wrong reasons, just because they needed to create a government that would grant them the punishment that they’d craved. Leading Ishval to its salvation had been nothing more than an accomplishment to check off on their march to “justice.”  

But Ishval was so much more.

When soldiers returned home from the Ishvalan War (herself included), they’d returned changed.

 _Ishval changes you,_ they’d said, and she’d ignored their words, because Ishval hadn’t changed them; war had.

But she’d been wrong. Ishval, no matter why you went, _did_ change you. It stripped away your barriers, revealing the lies you perpetuated to live with yourself.  

Ishval was no longer just a stepping stone to fixing her mistakes but a diverse land of possibility and hope. Hope, even among the most downtrodden, was the most inspiring thing she could imagine.

Edward had it, Alphonse had it, Abra had it, and even Ishval itself seemed to ooze of it.

And maybe some of it had even rubbed off on Riza. She didn’t know what lay in her future: with Roy or with Ishval, but she had the ability to hope that the next chapter of all of their lives would be better than what had come before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed this story! 
> 
> So… will there be a sequel?
> 
> I’m going to say that I’m about 75% sure that I’ll be writing a sequel. It won’t be released for a while. I prefer to write the whole story before I post it, and I do want to focus on my own original content right now. 
> 
> But I can give you a few sequel details: it’ll be shorter than The Ishvalan Accords. I’m thinking 30-40k right now (though that was the original plan for this story, and you can see how that ended up). It’ll also take place around 1-2 years after this story. I have a tentative outline in mind, but if there were any unanswered questions you had while reading this story, I’d love to hear them and see if maybe they could be incorporated into the sequel. I make no promises, but you never know!
> 
> And a super special thank you to those of you who my regular reviewers- you know who you are, and you’re amazing!
> 
> And so for the last time, if you enjoyed this chapter or the story, I’d love to hear it.


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